
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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Constance 


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CONSTANCE 



F. c: PHILIPS 

AUTHOR OF 

“as in a looking-glass,” “the dean and his daughter, 

ETC., ETC. . * 



JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

1 19 Potter Building 



. Copyright, 1892, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 


CONSTANCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

CONSTANCE. 

Mrs. Armitage stood in the porch of Greystone 
Park gazing at the retreating forms of her husband 
and his friends, as, equipped in their shooting cos- 
tumes, and followed at a distance by two keepers, they 
started on their day’s sport. The party consisted of 
Mr. Armitage, his great ally Lord Hardstock — a 
man who for many years had lived on his title and 
his wits, but who lately had come into a large for- 
tune — and Basil St. Quentin, an attach^ at the Eng- 
lish embassy , in Paris. As they walked leisurely 
down the avenue, the two guests occasionally looked 
back and received a smile or a wave of the hand 
from their hostess. But Cyril Armitage never once 
turned his head, nor indeed seemed conscious that 
there was such a person in existence as his wife. 

When once the sportsmen were out of sight, Mrs. 
Armitage turned with a sigh and entered the house. 
Her life was a very unhappy one now, although 
when she had married, nine years ago, everything 
promised a bright and happy future for her. Cyril 
Armitage was rich, of good family, and appeared to 
be desperately in love with her. The marriage was, 
apparently, not only one of affection, but it was also 

5 


6 


CONSTANCE. 


considered by all the friends of the contracting 
parties to be eminently satisfactory from every pos- 
sible point of view. Two children had been born of 
the marriage, a boy and a girl, and for the first two 
years every thing went well. But then Mr. Armi- 
tage unfortunately began to drink more than was 
good for him, and, truth to tell, there were few 
nights that he went to bed sober. Acting under the 
influence of this detestable habit, he became unrea- 
sonably jealous of his wife, and there would often be 
violent scenes between them — for, needless to say, 
Constance Armitage indignantly resented her hus- 
band’s most unjust suspicions. Later on — as is 
often the case with dipsomaniacs — the unhappy 
man took a dislike to society, and so it was that he 
gave up his house in London and retired permanently 
to his place in Norfolk. Mrs. Armitage was not 
sorry for this. Indeed, under the circumstances, she 
preferred a country life. The poor lady was devoted 
to her children, and the loss of London society in no 
way affected her. Occasionally, as at the present 
time, her husband would ask two or three men for a 
few days’ shooting, but she saw little of the friends 
thus invited. In the first place, they were out nearly 
all day, and soon after dinner they would retire to 
the billiard-room, and would be seen no more until 
the next morning. 

Lord Hardstock was a bosom friend of her hus- 
band, although in every respect a contrast to him. 
Armitage, since he had taken to drink, was taciturn, 
and, as a rule, very ill-tempered. Lord Hardstock, 
on the other hand, was a brilliant conversationalist, 
a man who took all trouble lightly and carelessly, 
and whose idea of the world seemed to be that it had 
been created purely for his amusement, and that, at 
any rate, it was his duty to derive every possible 
enjoyment from it. 

Basil St. Quentin was also an old friend of Armi- 


CONSTANCE. 


7 


tage’s. He had known and admired Mrs. Armitage 
before her marriage, and now pitied her for the ter- 
rible life she was compelled to lead. Cyril Armitage 
was at no pains to conceal the fact that the love he 
once had for his wife was dead, and his rudeness to 
her in the presence -of his guests often made the 
blood mount hotly to St. Quentin’s cheeks, and he 
longed to give the husband the chastisement he 
deserved. 

There were times, indeed, when Constance felt 
that things must come to an end — when the brutality 
and coarse insolence of her husband proved almost 
beyond her endurance. But what could she do? 
Although it was impossible for her to entertain any 
feelings of affection, or even respect, for her husband, 
she fancied, somehow, that if she left him the wrong 
would be on her side, and that she might not only for- 
feit the world’s good opinion, but would run the risk 
of being separated from her children. And her chil- 
dren, being everything to her, came before all else. 

And now, to make matters worse — and, heaven 
knows, they were bad enough already — Lord Hard- 
stock had lately begun to pay her an amount of at- 
tention that was not only odious to her on account 
of her dislike to the man himself, but because her 
husband had such implicit faith in him that he ap- 
peared to be — and, indeed, was — perfectly uncon- 
scious of his friend’s treachery. It amused Lord 
Hardstock to see the anger produced by his civil 
speeches. Good-looking, and accustomed as he was 
to very easy conquests, it was a novel sensation for 
him to meet with the chilling indifference of Mrs. 
Armitage. 

Later on, to-day, when Constance was tired of 
brooding over her troubles, she went for a brisk walk 
across the park, and, as ill luck would have it, was 
much against her own inclination forced into a tite- 
a-tete with Lord Hardstock — the man she so much 


8 


CONSTANCE. 


disliked. She came upon him suddenly, and gave a 
start of surprise, being quite unprepared for meeting 
any one in the secluded path she had chosen. 

“ You frightened me,” she said, recovering herself. 

“ I did not expect to meet any one here. Where are 

the others?” . . , t 

“ I am lost,” he said, with a laugh, or, rather, I 
lost myself. I got ti ed of killing inoffensive pheas- 
ants which had never done me any harm, so, like 
a naughty child, I lagged behind; but I don’t regret 
it, for, since I have lost myself, at any rate I have 
found you.” 

“ I was just going to turn homeward, she said 
coldly. 

“ Then we can walk together,” he replied. 

“Had you not better wait for the others?” she 
asked. “ Where have you been shooting?” 

“Here, there, and everywhere,” was the answer. 
“ No, I would rather walk back with you, if you will 
let me. Have you been very dull all day?” 

“ No,” she said, “ I am never dull.” 

“ And yet you see no society, and your life must 
be very monotonous.” 

“ I have plenty of occupations— my children, the 
people in the village.” 

“ Oh, yes. The mothers’ meetings and the penny 
readings. It must all be very delightful, I have no 
doubt. But surely a woman like you was never 
created for such an existence?” 

“ You must be wrong there,” she answered, “ since 
it is my fate to follow it.” 

“ You bear it very bravely, ” said Lord Hardstock, 
adopting a more sentimental tone ; “ but I am sure 
you are not happy.” 

“ Let us talk of something else,” she said abruptly. 
“ I am not an interesting subject to discuss.” 

“You are very interesting to me,” said he. “I 
would rather talk about you than anything or any- 


CONSTANCE. 


9 


body on earth — or in heaven, for the matter of 
that.” 

Mrs. Armitage burst out laughing, a laugh that 
was perfectly natural and unfeigned; and it was 
more galling to Lord Hardstock than any reproof 
that could have come from her lips. * 

“I had no idea I was so absorbing,” she said. 
“And, really, you looked sq.^ genuine when you 
said it.” 

“I was genuine,” he answered. “I always am 
when I talk to you. I want you to tell me one thing. ” 

“What is that?” said Mrs. Armitage. 

“ I want you to tell me why you are not happy.” 

“When I require a confidant, perhaps I will,” 
said she ; “ but at present, as you seem so bent on 
discussing me, I should advise you to do so with my 
husband.” « 

Lord Hardstock pursed up his lips, and for the 
moment made no reply. Presently he said: “How 
long is St. Quentin going to stay here?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Armitage. “As 
you are doubtless aAvare, my husband fixes the stay 
of the friends he asks.” 

“ But St. Quentin is a friend of yours, is he not?” 

“Yes, I have known him along time,” she said, 
coloring in spite of herself. “ But I didn’t ask him 
here.” 

“ Did you suggest to Armitage that he should do 
so?” asked Lord Hardstock. 

“ That is rather a curious question for you to put 
to me, ” she answered ; “ but I will reply to it all the 
same. Mr. Armitage asked Mr. St. Quentin here 
himself.” 

“ I wonder what his reason was, ” said his lordship. 

“ His reason was, because he occasionally likes to 
hear what is going on in Paris. Although we live 
out of the world, we have not ceased taking an inter- 
est in it.” 


lO 


CONSTANCE. 


“ You might be one of the brightest ornaments of 
that world,” he exclaimed, after a pause. 

“You are in a complimentary humor,” she re- 
plied, smiling. “I am so unused to compliments 
that I never know what to say when one is paid me.” 

“ Does St. Quentin never pay you compliments?” 
he asked 

“No, he is too well bred,” she answered, and the 
minute afterward was angry with herself for losing 
her temper. 

“I know that he is a pattern of all the virtues,’ 
said Lord Hardstock; “but for my part I hate a 
paragon. I always suspect the cloven foot. 

To this remark Mrs. Armitage did not vouchsafe 
any answer. She was angry with Lord Hardstock 
for his insinuations respecting St. Quentin, and still 
more vexed that she should have shown she minded 
them. . All she longed for was that the tHe-a-tete 
should come to an end. Hardstock walked by her 
side with his eyes cast upon the ground, and evi- 
dently in anything but good humor. Presently he 
looked up and said : 

“ I had often longed for a walk with you alone, 
and yet I have not enjoyed this one.” 

“Anticipation is always better than realization,” 
said Mrs. Armitage dryly. 

“ I don’t see why you should always be so down 
on me,” he continued. “ It is very hard to be always 
snubbed.” 

“ Then you should not make remarks that require 
snubbing,” she answered. 

“You never snub St. Quentin.” 

“ I treat people as they treat me. Mr. St. Quentin 
has never said an impertinent word to me in his life. ” 

“ Because he does not care for you as I do. You 
know that I ” 

“That is enough. Lord Hardstock,” said Mrs. 
Armitage, coloring. “ I will not listen to such 


CONSTANCE. 


II 


nonsense. You are my husband’s friend, and, there- 
fore, I do not wish to quarrel with you ; but, once 
for all, there must be an end of the tone you have 
adopted lately. If you cannot speak to me with 
proper respect, I shall be reluctantly obliged to ask 
my husband to shorten your stay. ” 

“I beg your pardon if I have offended you,” he 
said. 

“Your words and your manner would offend any 
woman who had the least atom of self-respect,” she 
answered. 

They were now approaching the house, and Mrs. 
Armitage felt untold relief as she saw in the distance 
her children coming forward to meet her. 

“ Here come the children,” she said, with a joy she 
could not repress. 

“Are we to be enemies?” asked Lord Hardstock, 
somewhat sulkily. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” she answered. 

“ You will know one day,” he said. 

But Constance scarcely heard him, as the children 
ran up to her and poured into their mother’s ear a 
voluble account of their day’s proceedings. 


CHAPTER 11. 


The dinner that evening was particularly gloomy 
and depressing. In the first place, Mr. Armitage 
was in a vile humor, and found fault with every- 
thing. Then, too, he had already taken a great deal 
too much to drink, as was evidenced by his purple face 
and bloodshot eyes. His wife bore his complaints 
with that patience which long custom had taught 
her to acquire. Only occasionally, when he empha- 
sized his remarks by an oath, did her face assume a 
look as if that patience had come to an end. 

Lord Hardstock, for once, was silent, making no 
attempt to improve matters, while St. Quentin made 
desperate efforts to talk to Mrs. Armitage, and to 
appear to ignore the temper of her husband. When, 
at length, the dinner came to an end, Constance 
withdrew to the drawing-room, thankful to be alone, 
and with her cheeks still burning at the language 
Mr. Armitage had used in her presence. She took 
up a book and tried to read, but her thoughts wan- 
dered away to the time when she had first known her 
husband. What a change had taken place! Was it 
possible that the man who had once loved her so 
ardently could now insult her in the presence of his 
friends? She threw down the book, and rising from 
her chair paced up and down the room ; and, as her 
thoughts again recurred to the open contempt her 
husband displayed for her, the tears came into her 
eyes, and she scarcely made any effort to restrain 
them. She could bear it no longer. No woman 
would put up with such treatment. She must have 
an explanation with him, and some arrangement must 


12 


CONSTANCE. 


13 


be made by which they could live apart. Then, as 
always, arose the question of the children. What 
would become of them? They might be sent to 
school — at least the boy, Harold, who was then eight; 
and the girl, Alice, could remain with her. Surely, 
her husband could not object to a separation? He 
had not retained the faintest semblance of affection 
for her, and, if he wished it, the children could 
spend a portion of their holidays with him. 

These thoughts occurred rapidly to her, and, 
acting upon the spur of the moment, she rang the 
bell and sent word to Mr. Armitage by the servant 
who answered her summons that she wished to speak 
to him. She would no longer endure this life, and 
she would let her husband know at once what she 
had decided. She waited a few minutes. Then, 
instead of her husband, Basil St. Quentin entered the 
room. 

“Your husband is playing a match with Lord 
Hardstock,” he said. “ Do you particularly wish to 
see him? He has sent me in his place.” 

“It is of no consequence,” she answered, with a 
feeling of disappointment at the interview being 
delayed. “ I will wait until they have finished the 
game.” 

“ You were crying, ” he said. “ Has anything hap- 
pened?” 

“ Nothing unusual has happened,” she answered. 
“ You heard what took place at dinner — it is only a 
sample of my every-day life. But I have borne it 
long enough ; I will bear it no longer. I sent for 
Mr. Armitage to tell him as much.” 

“I am very sorry, indeed, for you,” he said. 
“ Armitage is violent and unreasonable. But what 
do you propose doing?” 

“ I mean to leave him, ” she answered. “ If it were 
not for my children, I would leave the house to- 
night.” 


14 


CONSTANCE. 


“ You must not do anything rash, ” he said. “ One 
false step, and you would be irretrievably ruined.” 
And then he added, “ I cannot tell you how grieved 
I am for you.” 

“ Yes, I have paid dearly for making what the 
world calls a brilliant match, have I not?” she said 
bitterly. “ But it is at an end now. I want none of 
his money. I will only accept what is sufficient to 
educate my children. ” 

“ I am afraid Lord Hardstock is not a friend of 
yours,” said Mr. St. Quentin; “and if I were you I 
should wait until he is gone before I did anything. 
From what I have noticed he seems to encourage 
your husband in his conduct toward you.” 

“I know he is not my friend,” she said, “and I 
am very glad he is not. He is a man who is a 
stranger to all honorable feelings.” 

“ He has made one or two very disagreeable re- 
marks to me,” said St. Quentin, “but I have not 
noticed them, as it appears there is enough strife in 
the house already. I really believe that his mali- 
cious insinuations to your husband were the cause of 
the outbreak at dinner. ” 

“ What do you mean?” asked Constance. 

“ I mean that he is base enough to suggest to 
Armitage that the affection which he knows I bore 
for you before your marriage has not entirely dis- 
appeared.” 

Then Constance remembered Lord Hardstock ’s 
innuendoes of the afternoon, and his parting remark 
that she would know one day what it meant for him 
to be her enemy. She did not, however, mention 
this. If Lord Hardstock maligned her, and her hus- 
band listened to him, there was all the more reason 
for an instant separation. 

“I see what you mean,” said she, “and it only 
strengthens me in my resolution. ” Then she added : 
“ I would be very sorry if you were in any way mixed 


CONSTANCE. 15 

Up in our unfortunate quarrels. You had better 
leave at once.” 

“ I intend doing so to-morrow,” he answered, “ and 
had availed myself of the old plan of having a tele- 
gram sent me. It will arrive to-morrow morning.” 

“ Then I had better delay the announcement of my 
departure until you have gone. Perhaps it is well 
ordered that you should have come and told me this 
before I acted too precipitately.” 

“I can understand that your life is intolerable,” 
he said, “and I really see nothing for you but a 
separation.” 

“No, it is inevitable,” she answered. “I have 
often thought about it before, and for one reason or 
another have relinquished the idea; but this time I 
have quite made up my mind, and nothing shall 
shake my resolution.” 

“ You may always count upon me as your friend, ” 
he said. “ If ever you are in trouble, write to me at 
the embassy, and I will do all in my power to help 
you.” 

“Thank you,” she answered, holding out her hand 
to him in friendship. 

He took it and raised it to his lips. At that mo- 
ment Armitage and Lord Hardstock entered the 
room. 

“You make a very pretty picture!” cried the in- 
furiated husband. “ Have you nearly done with my 
wife, St. Quentin?” 

Both remained silent. The action had been inno- 
cent, but the interruption was so sudden that neither 
of them had a word to say. It was Lord Hardstock 
who first broke silence. 

“ St. Quentin is only wishing your wife ‘good- 
night,’” said he, with a curious expression in his 
face that culminated in a smile almost Satanic in 
its way. 

“ He chooses a 


funny way of doing so!” said 


i6 


CONSTANCE. 


Armitage. And then turning to his wife, he con- 
tinued: “You had better go to your room, madam. 
If you cannot behave yourself with decency in my 
absence, you shall at any rate not disgrace me be- 
fore my guests. ” 

This was too much for Constance. The feeling of 
indignation against her husband, which she had 
only partially smothered owing to St. Quentin’s 
words, burst forth again with tenfold violence, and 
quite unable to control herself she said : 

“ I will pass by your insulting suspicions because 
they are too ridiculous to be answered ; but as you or- 
der me to go to my room I may as well tell you that 
it is my intention to leave you altogether. You dare 
to talk of my disgracing you. I have never done so, 
as you well know. For the past six years I have 
borne your insults and calumnies. I can bear them 
no longer. Your guests have been witness of what 
I have endured, and I had just told Mr. St. Quentin 
of my determination to leave you when you entered 
the room.” 

“And pray does Mr. St. Quentin accompany you?” 
asked her husband. 

“You have no right to make such an insinuation,” 
said St. Quentin hotly. “ I am leaving here to-mor- 
row morning, but it is because I do not choose to 
stay in the house of a man who is lost to all self- 
respect and gentleman-like feeling. ” 

“ By — • — , you shall both leave the house to-night,” 
roared Armitage, mad with passion. “ I must have 
been blind all this time not to have seen what has 
been going on between you under my very nose ; but 
I am blind no longer. You can pack up your traps 
and be off — the pair of you — and a good riddance of 
bad rubbish. ” 

“ You do not know what you are saying,” said St. 
Quentin quietly. “When you are sober yotl will 
regret your infamous accusation.” 


CONSTANCE. 


^7 


“ Armitage was sober enough to see you kissing 
his wife." said Lord Hardstock carelessly. “You 
must admit, St. Quentin, that it was not a very pleas- 
ant sight for him." 

“ No it was an unpleasant one," said the master of 
the house. “ But they can do their billing and coo- 
ing elsewhere in future; they don’t stop another 
night in this house.” 

Then Constance walked up to her husband and 
said very calmly and quietly: “It was not my in-, 
tention to attempt to exonerate myself ; but as you 
appear to be serious I must do so. I had just told 
Mr. St. Quentin that my life was intolerable and 
that I intended to leave you. In return he had said 
that he would always be my friend. On my honor 
that is all that passed between us. At that moment 
5^ou came in." 

“ I have no doubt that his friendship will be very 
valuable,” said Lord Hardstock. 

“At any rate, you shall not enjoy it in my house," 
said Armitage. “ I have told you both to go, and I 
have nothing more to say." 

“ I shall choose my own time for leaving your 
house," said Constance proudly; “and I refuse to 
obey the orders of a drunken man." 

“ You will soon see if I am drunk, and if I am not 
master in my own house,” cried her husband. Turn- 
ing to Lord Hardstock, he said: “Just ring the bell, 
there’s a good fellow, will you?” 

The summons was immediately answered. A 
crowd of servants, attracted by the noise, had clus- 
tered round the door — as servants will do on such 
unpleasant occasions — and the butler, wearing a look 
of excessive innocence, and without betraying in 
the least degree that he imagined that anything was 
wrong, at once appeared. 

“Tell Pratt to pack up Mrs. Armitage’s things, 
and William is to do the same for Mr. St. Quentin," 
2 


i8 


CONSTANCE. 


said Armitage. “ They are both leaving here to- 
night. The brougham must be at tho door in half 
an hour. ” 

The butler withdrew and Constance, with flaming 
cheeks, burst forth: “How dare you so insult me 
before the servants! Lord Hardstock, speak to him. 
He may listen to you. Tell him that he is wrong — 
that I am innocent.” 

“ It is always a bad plan to interfere between hus- 
band and wife, ” said his lordship, with a smile. “ I 
have no doubt when the tirne comes you will be able 
to exculpate yourself. ” 

“You need not appeal to Lord Hardstock,” said 
Mr. St. Quentin ; “ he is scarcely the person to give 
any one good advice. You must obey your husband, 
even though he is not sober. I will escort you to 
London. Once there, you can take the necessary 
steps to have your separation legally carried out.” 

“There’s no question of a separation,” said Armi- 
tage. “It shall be a divorce.” Then, turning to 

his wife, he continued : “ And glad I shall be to 

get rid of you and your tragedy-queen airs. ” 

“I will take your advice, Mr. St. Quentin,” said 
Constance, paying no attention to her husband’s last 
outburst. So saying, she went out of the room. 

The poor lady’s nerves had been so shaken by the 
infamous scene that she had scarcely strength to 
climb the staircase. But somehow or other she 
managed to do it, and went straight to her children’s 
bedrooms and kissed them both, as they lay asleep 
all unconscious of their mother’s trouble. In less 
than half an hour she had left the house. 


CHAPTER III. 


F'rom Greystone Park to the station was not along 
drive, and Mrs. Armitage and her companion man- 
aged to catch the last train to London. 

“We had better not go up to town in the same 
cafriage,” said Mr. St. Quentin. “There is no say- 
ing what enormity Armitage may be guilty of with 
that ruffian Hardstock at his elbow, and it is best to 
be prepared for everything.” Mrs. Armitage agreed, 
and consequently she saw no more of Basil until the 
train steamed into Liverpool Street. 

“ I will call and see you to-morrow, if you will 
allow me,” said Basil, as he put Constance into a 
hansom. 

“ Of course I am going to old Mr. Bolder, my peo- 
ple’s lawyer, the first thing in the morning, or, 
rather, as soon as I am dressed; for it’s morning 
now. After that I have nothing to do. Will you 
come and lunch at the Metropole? That’s where I 
shall stay, if I can find rooms.” 

“ No, I think that would be unwise under all the 
circumstances, and considering the kind of people 
that you will have to fight. And the fight is cer- 
tain, rest assured of that.” 

“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Constance 
wearily. “ Anyhow, tell me when I may hope to 
see you.” 

“ I will call in the afternoon about four, if that will 
suit you.” 

“Perfectly,” answered Constance. “Very well, 
then, I shall expect you at four. Tell the man, will 
you, to drive to the Metropole? Good-by.’* 

19 


20 


CONSTANCE. 


Basil St. Quentin’s feelings, as he sat smoking in 
his chambers, previous to turning in, were of a mixed 
character. In the first place, he was exceedingly 
sorry for and deeply pained at the unmerited misfor- 
tune that had overtaken the only woman for whom 
he had ever really cared. But at the same time, he 
could not fail to find pleasure in the reflection that 
Constance and her husband were doubtless now 
estranged forever, and that should Mrs. Armitage 
succeed in obtaining a divorce, he, Basil, would have 
an excellent chance of making her his wife. 

Constance found rooms at the Metropole, but, 
though sorely in need of rest, she was unable to 
close her eyes during the remainder of the night. 
She rose early, and was one of the first callers 
at Messrs. Bolder, Tanfield, Willicombe & Sharpe’s, 
solicitors, in Bedford Row. 

Mr. Bolder received her in his most courteous man- 
ner, heard her story, shook his head now and again 
with a gravity worthy of a Burleigh, and Anally said: 

“ My dear madam, I need scarcely tell you that I 
will devote my whole energies to your interests, 
which, after all, are simple. You need have no 
anxiety, as your settlements were drawn in this 
office. For the present, I am satisfied that you want 
other help that I can give you. Let me beg you 
without delay to consult your doctor. I can clearly 
see — and you must be guided by me, for you are 
young enough to be my daughter — that you need 
rest.” 

“ Thank you very much, Mr. Bolder. I will do as 
you suggest.” 

“ That is right. Let me see you in three days’ 
time — say Friday afeleven. ” 

And then, to the surprise of his staff of clerks, the 
old man took Mrs. Armitage down the stairs on his 
arm, handed her into her hansom, and returned with 
a thoughtful face. 


CONSTANCE. 


21 


“Tell Mr. Jackson,” he said, as he re-entered, “to 
bring up Mrs. Armitage’s boxes and all papers of any 
sort connected with her affairs, and run round to our 
junior, Mr. Brayson, in Old Square, and fix a consul- 
tation for this evening after six. See the cashier, 
and take a check for counsel’s and clerk’s fees.” 

Mrs. Armitage, acting on Mr. Holder’s advice, 
drove immediately to Dr. Jacob Chatwin’s. Now 
Dr. Chatwin was a physician as kindly in nature 
as he was eminent in his profession. The doctor 
had known the poor lady ever since she was three 
years old, and was naturally much grieved at the 
state in which he found her. Her nerves were 
strung to the highest pitchj and she was trembling 
with excitement. 

“My dear child,” said the doctor, patting Con- 
stance on the head, as he used to do when she was 
a little girl in short frocks — “my dear child, your 
trouble is a mental one, not a physical one. Sit 
down and tell me all about it. ” 

Mrs. Armitage obeyed, and in a few minutes Dr. 
Chatwin knew the history of her unhappy married 
life. 

“ Now, the first thing that I must tell you, Mrs. 
Armitage, is that you must not worry. I absolutely 
forbid it. Why, a good man is not worth worrying 
about; and as for a man like your husband, he is 
unworthy of a second consideration. The only thing 
to be decided — and that is a matter for your lawyers 
to attend to — is the best way to get rid of him. Life 
with a man of that description is a living death, and 
no woman should be called upon to support such an 
existence. I have an only daughter, as you know, 
and I tell you what it is, Mrs. Armitage: I would 
rather see my child in her cofhn than that she should 
be doomed to pass the remainder of her life with a 
jealous, drunken man.” 

“I think you are quite right. Dr. Chatwin,” said 


22 


CONSTANCE. 


Constance. “ Anyhow, I am to see Mr. Bolder again 
on Friday, and he will, of course, do all that is nec- 
essary. I feel I am quite safe in acting under his 
advice.” 

“ Perfectly safe, ” said Dr. Chatwin, who had be- 
gun to write out a prescription. “ I have known Mr. 
Bolder for forty years and a more thorough man of 
the world I never met. Have this made up at once, ” 
handing a slip of paper to his patient, “ and take it 
regularly till you see me again. You will find that 
it will put a little new life into you. If you don’t 
find yourself better, send for me or come here with- 
out delay. You know my hours, eleven to one and 
after five. Good-by. Cheer up, and, above all, 
don’t worry.” 

Mrs. Armitage made her way back the Metropole, 
ordered lunch, but could scarcely eat a morsel when 
it came upon the table. Then she took up a book 
and tried to while away the time until Mr. St. Quen- 
tin should put in an appearance. She found it, 
however, quite impossible to concentrate her ideas, 
so she threw down the book and began to think. 
Her reflections, it need hardly be stated, were not of 
a very pleasant character. For the last three years, 
at all events, no ray of happiness had come into her 
life excepting such as was derived from the compan- 
ionship of her children. They, indeed, were her 
only solace, and now it was proposed to deprive her 
of their tender love. But the law could never allow 
this infamy to be perpetrated. Mr. Bolder would 
take care of that. She longed for Friday to come, 
in order that she might learn what steps the old 
lawyer was taking, and spur him on, if need be, to 
fresh exertions. Whatever it might cost, both in 
trouble and money, she made up her mind to re- 
gain possession of the little ones. 

While Constance was pondering over these things, 
the door opened and Basil St. Quentin was shown 


CONSTANCE. 


23 


in. His face was very grave, and he was evidently 
the bearer of intelligence of very serious import. 

' He went up to her and shook hands, 

“ I have brought you terrible news — very terrible 
news, indeed — Mrs. Armitage,” he said, pointing to 
a newspaper which he laid on the table. “ Your 
husband is dead.” 

Mrs. Armitage sank down in a chair, but spoke no 
word. 

“ It seems he had an apoplectic fit. Perhaps I had 
better read you what the paper says. It is only a 
short paragraph : 

* Mr. Cyril Armitage, of Greystone Park, Norfolk, died 
suddenly this morning of apoplexy. The deceased gen- 
tleman, who was apparently in perfect health, shot yes-^ 
terday with a party of friends whom he had been enter- 
taining at Greystone. Mr. Armitage was in his thirtieth 
year, and leaves a wife and two children. ’ ” 

Then Mrs. Armitage spoke for the first time, and 
her voice was almost unnaturally calm. “ My course 
is clear,” said she. “ I shall leave for Greystone at 
once.” 

“Yes, that will doubtless be the best. Can I be 
of any assistance?” 

“ No, thank you very much, I think not. And now, 
Mr. St. Quentin, you won’t be angry if I tell you 
that I would rather be alone for a little time. You 
won’t think me unkind if I say good-by.” 

“Of course not. Good-by, Mrs. Armitage. I 
need scarcely beg you to command me, if there is 
anything I can possibly do.” 

Mrs. Armitage made no reply, but shook hands 
rather coldl)^ — at least so St. Quentin thought as he 
left the room. 

The door had no sooner closed than Constance 
burst into tears. 


CHAPTER IV. 


With the exception of an elder sister, and apart 
from her own children; Constance Armitage did not 
possess a single near relation. She had lost her 
mother during her infancy, and her father, a famous 
judge, had died a few months before her marriage 
with Cyril Armitage. Indeed, it may be doubted 
whether Sir Henry Fabian, a very shrewd and far- 
seeing man, would ever have given his consent to the 
'marriage. But, as we have seen, Constance was an 
orphan at the time, with no one to advise her except 
her sister Rebecca, and that young lady (herself 
already married to the eminent queen’s counsel, 
Mr. Strangways) being strongly in favor of the 
match, and Constance being desperately in love, 
the marriage had accordingly taken place. 

Mr. Justice Fabian was fifty- two when he was made 
a judge, and everybody said it was a capital appoint- 
ment. He had made a brilliant success at the bar, 
and had saved a good deal of money. 

Sir Henry had got perilously near sixty, and had 
begun to calculate that there only remained seven 
years more of drudgery before he could retire on a 
well-earned pension, when an attack of bronchitis 
carried him off. Constance, who found herself in 
possession of ^^20,000, then went to live with her 
sister, Mrs. Strangways, and in less than a year 
from the time of her father’s death, married Mr. 
Armitage, an old friend and distant connection of 
her brother-in-law. We have seen what a martyr- 
dom her married life became, and how she suddenly 
and unexpectedly found herself free. 

24 


CONSTANCE. 


25 


Within an hour of Basil St. Quentin’s departure, 
Constance made her way to her sister’s. Mrs. 
Strangways lived in Clarges Street, and was at home 
when Mrs. Armitage arrived. 

“Good heavens! Constance, what are you doing 
here? ” was her greeting. “ I have been telegraph- 
ing to you ever since I heard the terrible news. 
Surely you were with Cyril when ” 

“ No, I was not.” 

“ Dear me ! What do you mean? How strange you 
look ! I hope there is nothing wrong — I mean noth- 
ing worse than this catastrophe itself. ” 

“I had better tell you everything, Rebecca.” 
And Constance poured out her sorrow into the not 
unsympathetic ears of her sister. For Rebecca 
Strangways, though a thorough woman of the world, 
possessed a kind heart, and was deeply attached to 
her younger sister. 

“This is very terrible!” said Mrs. Strangways, 
when Constance had finished. “Very terrible, in- 
deed. I am sorry you left the house as you did. I 
know what the world is, and am positive that there 
will be a scandal about it — especially with that 
villain Hardstock there to spread some lying re- 
port. However, there is clearly only one thing to be 
done now. You must go back at once, and I will 
go with you. That is to say, if my husband ap- 
proves.” 

Mr. Strangways, who that moment returned from 
the Temple, did approve; and the two ladies left for 
Greystone by the night mail. 


CHAPTER V. 


It was nearly midnight when the sisters arrived 
at Greystone station. They had decided not to go 
to the Park until the morning, but to pass the night 
at the Bull Hotel. 

Mr. Strangways was entirely opposed to this mode 
of procedure, and wished his sister-in-law before 
starting to send a telegram to the butler announcing 
her arrival. But this Mrs. Armitage would not do, 
and thus it was not until the following morning that 
she and Rebecca presented themselves at the Park. 

Lord Hardstock met them at the door. 

“ Pray come in, Mrs. Armitage,” he said, as though 
he were inviting her into his own house. “ I cannot 
tell you how grieved I am at this terrible business, 
nor can I find words to express how much I feel for 
you. I am glad you have brought another lady with 
you.” 

“ This is my sister. Lord Hardstock — Mrs. 
Strangways,” said Constance, introducing Rebecca. 

“Oh, yes,” said his lordship, bowing. “I noticed 
the likeness.” 

“ And now. Lord Hardstock, I should like to see 
my husband, and I wish to be alone.” 

“ Of course. Let me take you to the room.” 

“No, thank you,” said Constance; adding, “I 
should like to have a few words with you, Lord 
Hardstock, when I come down.” 

“ Certainly,” answered his lordship. “ I, too, have 
a good deal to tell you.” He conducted Mrs. Strang- 
ways to the drawing-room while Constance went up- 
stairs. In a few moments, having reverently kissed 
26 


CONSTANCE. 


27 


his cold forehead, she was praying by the coffin of 
the man she once so deeply loved and now felt she 
loved again. 

Mrs. Strangways was a remarkably clever woman, 
and when Mrs. Strangways made up her mind to 
carry an object she was, as a rule, entirely success- 
ful. Now, Mrs. Strangways’ object at the present 
time was to pump Lord Hardstock; but in this, it 
must be owned^ she entirely failed. His lordship 
had made up his mind to commit himself to nothing 
until after his interview with Mrs. Armdtage ; so he 
parried with the dexterity of a Turkish diplomatist 
all the questions put to him by the crafty Rebecca, 
with the result that that lady knew rather less at 
the termination of the interview than she did at its 
commencement. 

Presently Constance returned. 

“ I will leave you, dear, for a little time,” said her 
sister, who clearly saw that Mrs. Armitage and Lord 
Hardstock both wished to be alone. 

“ Thanks, Rebecca. If you will go into the library, 
I will come to you directly.” 

As soon as they were alone, Hardstock turned to 
Constance, and said : “ You will find in me a stanch 
ally, if you will only act prudently. I can put every- 
thing right for you ; and what is more, I will do so 
if we are only friends.” 

“ I do not understand you. First tell me where 
are my children. They are not in the nursery. ” 

“ Doubtless they are out with the nurse. Anyhow, 
you will see them directly. But I have a good deal 
to say to you at once. I have telegraphed for Cyril’s 
brother, and expect him this afternoon. Before his 
arrival, it may be as well that our position toward 
each other should be clearly defined.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Simply this. Gerald Armitage will doubtless 
accept my explanation of the events that have taken 


28 


CONSTANCE. 


place during the last few days — events which on the 
face of them appear, to sa)^ the least, somewhat 
curious. Now, if it is to be peace between us, that 
explanation will be entirely satisfactory. But if it 
is to be war, why then you must not be surprised at 
what may happen.” 

“Pray speak more plainly.” 

“ I cannot speak more plainly. At any rate, I 
have no intention of doing so just at present. Now 
say which it is to be, peace or war. Peace is always 
preferable, believe me. War, which brings with it 
the direst calamities — loss of children, for example — 
ought always to be avoided where it is possible. You 
had better not let it be war, Mrs. Armitage.” 

A vague idea crosed Constance’s mind that if she 
did not patch up a truce with this man she might 
somehow or other lose her children. For the daughter 
and sister-in-law of two eminent lawyers, she was 
singularly ignorant of all legal matters, or else she 
would have been aware that by no process known to 
the law could she have been deprived of their care. 
The poor lady felt that she would rather part with 
life itself than that should be her lot, and, truth to 
tell, she would have extended her friendship to a per- 
son even viler than Lord Hardstock rather than be 
separated from her two treasures. For their sake, 
and to pass the rest of her life with them, she would 
have been capable of any sacrifice. At last she 
said: 

“ I cannot see why there should be war between us. 
Lord Hardstock. I have no ill-feeling toward you, 
and you surely can have no wish to injure me.” 

“ And I see no reason, either. I am very glad that 
we are of the same opinion.” Then, in answer to 
her inquiries. Lord Hardstock told Constance the 
details of her husband’s death, and explained the 
preparations he had made for the funeral. 

“When that is over,” said he, “I shall have some- 


CONSTANCE. 


29 


thing to say to you — something of very great im- 
portance.” 

“ Cannot you say it now?” 

“ No, I think not. I do not'want to bother you at 
present. I care for you too well for that.” 

His face as he said this was filled with an expres- 
sion of passion and admiration utterly loathsome to 
Constance, who felt that she had never hated this 
man so much as now. 

“ I think I will go to my sister, ” she said, and rising 
precipitately left the room. 

“ My dearest Constance — my poor girl !” 

Mrs. Strangways looked up in the greatest con- 
sternation as her sister flung herself into a chair and, 
covering her face with her hands, brust into tears. 

“You are overwrought,” said she, “and I am sure 
it is not to be wondered at.” 

Constance had fairly broken down, and tears and 
sobs would have their way. The excitement she had 
gone through, and the shock of her husband’s death, 
had left her weak and nerveless, and she shrank with 
a woman’s subtle instinct of aversion and terror from 
the man who — though he had pledged himself to be 
her friend — in her* inmost heart she instinctively 
recognized as her bitterest enemy. 

While the tears coursed down Constance’s cheeks, 
Rebecca, hearing the sound of pattering footsteps 
without, opened the door. In another minute the 
mother clasped her darlings in her arms, and little 
by little hope and courage stole back to her 
heart. 

It was late the next evening when Gerald Armi- 
tage arrived. Considerably his brother’s senior, 
there was hardly a point of resemblance between the 
two men. Tall, erect, with a dignified bearing and 
slow, ponderous manner of speech, Gerald Armitage 
was apt to impress a stranger with the belief that he 
was callous and cold-hearted ; but Constance was not 


30 


CONSTANCE. 


deceived. The firm grasp of the hands that held 
her own and the kindly gray eyes bent upon her 
told her that here she had a friend, and she turned 
away with a choking sensation in her throat. 

“ He must not know,” she said to herself. “ At all 
cost, the story of the last night of Cyril’s life must 
be kept from his brother. ” 

She turned to look into Lord Hardstock’s face. 
He met her glance significantly, and a blush, as if 
of shame, suffused her pale cheek. 

During the first years of her married life, Gerald 
Armitage had been in India, and beyond an occa- 
sional visit at long intervals, his sister-in-law had 
seen little of him. 

Cyril had never cared much for his brother, whom 
housed to call a prig and a saintly hypocrite, whereas 
Gerald was neither one nor the other. Six months 
ago he had married an extremely wealthy girl whose 
acquaintance he had made in Calcutta. Constance 
had never seen her sister-in-law, owing to the inex- 
plicable conduct of her husband, who had forbidden 
her to write a letter of congratulation to Gerald or 
his fiancee. “ Dolt” — “ fool” — “ i4iot” were among the 
mildest of the choice epithets he bestowed upon 
Gerald. “ What can the madman be about to marry 
at his time of life?” her husband used angrily to ask, 
and Constance had been puzzled to account for his 
wrath. But slie was destined to be enli;ghtened on 
that point before she was many hours older. 

They buried Cyril Armitage in the quiet little 
churchyard at Greystone, and despite the troubles of 
her married life, Constance remembered only that he 
had been the lover of her youth and the father of her 
children, and so she mourned for him. 

“ My dear child,” said Rebecca, as she walked into 
the room where Constance sat in her widow’s crape, 
with her pretty hair hidden by a widow’s cap, “my 
dear child, Mr. Willicombe has arrived.” 


CONSTANCE. 


31 


“Why, where is Mr. Bolder?” said Constance, 
looking startled, and not a little disappointed. 

Mr. Willicombe was the junior partner in the firm, 
and Constance had counted on having her old friend, 
Mr. Bolder, at her side when the will should be 
opened and read. 

“ I understand that Mr. Bolder is confined to his 
room with gout,” answered Rebecca. 

Constance sighed impatiently. How desolate she 
felt, how utterly alone. It seemed to her that there 
was quite a little crowd in the oak library when, 
deadly pale but perfectly calm and composed, she 
walked straight into the very midst. It was raw and 
cold, and a fire burned cheerily on the tiled hearth. 
On the mantel-shelf was a statuette in terra-cotta of 
the late master of Grey stone, and she shivered as her 
eyes rested on it. This had been his room, especial- 
ly his own, and it was impregnated with his person- 
ality. Indeed, only on rare occasions had she ven- 
tured there, and now it was hard to realize that he 
was gone — that never again would she shrink within 
herself at the sound of his voice, which had power 
to sting her, and beneath which she cowered as a 
hound under the lash. She had feared him ; she had 
lived in hourly dread of his violence. Only at the 
present moment did the full extent of her bondage 
and what it had entailed assert itself now that she 
was free; and shefelt that her bonds had been merci- 
fully cut asunder. 

By the big oak table, still littered with the dead 
man’s papers, stood John Grey, of the firm of Grey, 
Panting, Leech, and Grey, fully alive to the impor- 
tance attaching to himself as solicitor to the late Mr. 
Armitage. In a deliberate fashion Mr. Grey pro- 
ceeded to open the document and spread it out before 
him. 

“This,” said he, pompously adjusting his pince-nez 
at a right angle, “ is the will of my deceased client. 


32 


CONSTANCE. 


It was drawn up by me some eight years ago, and is, 
I believe, the only one in existence.” 

And then followed a string of meaningless words, 
as it seemed to Constance, hardly one of which she 
understood. When the voice ceased and the paper 
was laid aside, she looked up in blank bewilderment 
into her brother-in-law’s face. , 

“ I am afraid I do not quite understand,” she said 
apologetically. 

“ Everything is left unconditionally to you for your 
lifetime, to be divided between the children after- 
ward, and you are made sole executrix,” he an- 
swered kindly. 

She drew a long breath and rose from her chair. 
“ Thank you,” she said, “ gentlemen. If you will ex- 
cuse me I will go to my room.” 

Mrs. Strangways linked her arm in that of her sister 
and a moment later the door closed upon them. But 
they were scarcely out of ear-shot when Lord Hard- 
stock sprang to his feet. 

“That will is not worth the paper it is written 
on!” he cried in an aggressive tone. “Cyril Armi- 
tage had nothing to leave! Every stick and stone 
about the place is mortgaged up to the hilt!” 

“ How loudly they are talking,” said Constance, as 
the buzz of angry voices reached her in her dainty 
boudoir, upholstered in yellow and white, with 
Watteau panels let into the walls, and big, roomy, 
cushioned lounges that tempted the feminine soul to 
idleness. “T hope that they are not quarrelling.” 

Before she had time to say more, the library door 
was flung open, and Lord Hardstock’s voice rang out 
deflantly. “ Do not talk to me of proofs and docu- 
ments, Mr. Grey! But since my word is not suffi- 
cient, you shall have them. Again I tell you that 
Mr. Armitage died an absolute pauper.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


“ Rebecca, what are they saying?” Mrs. Strang- 
ways half rose from her seat, and then sank back 
again as the door opened and Gerald Armitage en- 
tered the room. He walked up to Constance: “ Are 
you brave enough to hear bad news?” he asked, with 
infinite gentleness. 

Her heart beat so fast that she could hardly speak, 
but she looked up into his face with a composure 
she was very far from feeling. “ Yes,” she said, “ I 
have gone through so much lately that a little more 
trouble ought scarcely to affect me.” 

“Well,” said he, “the bare facts are these. The 
trustees under the settlement purchased this estate^ 
shortly after your marriage with my poor brother — 
half the money settled upon you having been used 
for that purpose. Shortly afterward, one of them, 
Mr. Penthaligon, died, and the other, Mr. Beamish, 
as I think most improperly, allowed Cyril to raise 
a mortgage of ;^3o,ooo upon it. Six months ago 
this mortgage was called in, whereupon I understand 
my brother applied to Lord Hardstock for assistance. 
Lord Hardstock took a transfer mortgage, advanced 
a further sum, and is now sole mortgagee.” 

“Lord Hardstock!” she cried. “Am I in his 
hands?” 

Constance’s face grew pale and rigid and hard, i 
and seemed to age ten years in as many seconds. 

“ Lord Hardstock!” she repeated mechanically. “ It 
is not possible.” 

“It is a very unpleasant business altogether,” said , 
Mr. Armitage. “ I was afraid that things were going 
3 33 , 


34 


CONSTANCE. 


wrong with Cyril, but I had not the faintest suspicion 
that such utter ruin was staring him in the face. ” 

“ Did Cyril, then, confide in you as to his losses?” 
asked Constance. 

“Not altogether,” he answered; “but I gathered 
that he was in difficulties.” 

“ He applied to you for money, I suppose — that is 
what you mean.” The light had dawned upon her. 
This, then, was the solution of the mystery. This the 
reason why no word of welcome had greeted Gerald’s 
bride. 

In all his life Gerald Armitage never found a task 
so hard as now, when the clear blue eyes seemed to- 
search his inmost soul and compel the truth in all its 
nakedness. In dialling fashion he told how his bro- 
ther had written to him, evidently presupposing that 
he had but to ask in order to have, urging his re- 
sponsibilities as a married man and the father of a 
family, and appealing to him as a bachelor with 
neither ties nor encumbrances, and how he, Gerald, 
had answered him with the somewhat curt intimation 
of his own approaching marriage, and regretted that 
it was out of his power to assist him. 

“ Not a word have I heard from Greystone since 
then,” he said, in conclusion. 

“And what must you have thought of us all?” cried 
Constance. “ I am sure that you will at least do me 
the cornmon justice to believe that I never until 
to-day had the remotest suspicion that we were living 
beyond our means, nor that Cyril had ever applied 
to you for assistance.” 

Mr. Armitage bowed. 

“ My dear Constance, after all, there is your settle- 
ment. No one can touch that. ” Mrs. Strangways 
tried to glean some comfort from that fact. But this 
calamity was so unexpected, and the mine had been 
sprung upon them so suddenly, that for once in her 
clever, capable life she was at a loss. 


CONSTANCE. 


35 


“I am afraid that ;£5oo a year will not go far,” 
said Constance. “ But I suppose that I must make 
the best of it.” 

“ But how has the money gone?” asked her sister, 
who, being of a thrifty, economical turn of mind her- 
self, and but little given to spending much on either 
her own adornment or pleasure-seeking, had been 
staggered at the extravagance that had come to light. 

Constance shook her head. She was ignorant of 
the first elements of economy, but it was not poverty 
she feared — neither poverty nor, indeed, privation 
would have frightened her. It was the knowledge 
that the man to whom they were indebted was Lord 
Hardstock that appalled and frightened her. This 
was the one drop needed in her cup of shame. But 
she could not speak of him to Rebecca. The same 
feeling that sent the hot blood tingling through her 
cheeks kept her tongue tied. After all, what was 
there to tell? An idle compliment, a careless flatter- 
ing word, such as men like Lord Hardstock scatter 
broadcast. 

Suddenly she came to the resolution that she 
would see and speak with him — she would make him 
understand that, now she was aware of the true posi- 
tion of affairs, she was ready to yield to him what was 
indeed his ; and within a few minutes she stood facing 
him, defiant and determined. 

“ Lord Hardstock,” she began, in a voice that, des- 
pite her utmost endeavors, would tremble a little, 
“within the last hour it has come to my knowledge 
that Greystone belongs to you, and that I and my 
children are here on sufferance only.” 

“ Constance, are you just or fair?” he asked. “ In 
what way have I sinned? I came to the assistance of 
an old friend at a time when he sorely needed it, and 
there the obligation begins and ends. Surely you 
cannot blame me. I did it for your sake as much as 
his.” 


.36 


CONSTANCE. 


“For my sake!” echoed Mrs. Armitage, drawing 
herself tip haughtily. 

“ Yes, ” he replied, “ I repeat, for your sake. When 
I was a younger son I went through the mill myself. 
I have known what it has been to break into the last 
coin I had in the world, and I swore that that expe- 
rience should never fall to your lot if I could help it. ” 

“ Of course, I ought to be grateful.” 

“ I expect no gratitude. I expect nothing. If you 
will remain here, that is all I ask.” 

“ You must know that is impossible.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because I can accept no benefits at your hands.” 

“And again I ask, why not, Constance?” 

“ Lord Hardstock, this is the second time you have 
addressed me by my Christian name. I am Con- 
stance only to my friends.” 

“And you refuse to count me as one?” 

She was silent. The door opened and closed as 
noiselessly. It was Mr. Armitage. Lord Hardstock 
bent toward her. 

“ A word from me would have worked terrible mis- 
chief in that quarter,” he said significantly. “I 
did not speak that word. Do you still feel that you 
owe me nothing?” 

“ It is the knowledge of how much I owe you — the 
magnitude of the debt — that is crushing me.” And 
then she went away, her arms hanging at her side, 
and her whole attitude one of despair; and as he 
watched her go he smiled — a cruel smile of triumph. 

Two days later, Mrs. Armitage left the home 
where her married life had been spent. Once she had 
been very happy there. She recalled those early days 
with a passionate regret that surprised herself for 
the misery of the last four years had all but blotted 
it from memory. But youth is tenacious, and it car- 
ried her back now to golden hours when her husband 
was also her lover, and when she had been well con- 


CONSTANCE. 


37 


tent. In a woman’s Paradise sooner or later the 
serpent is sure to come, and the gates of Eden had 
closed on poor Constance only too soon. The shock 
of disillusion is harder to bear than the pangs of part- 
ing, or even than the utter desolation that death 
brings in its train. A woman cannot go on loving a 
man whose every action proclaims him selfish and con- 
temptible. There comes a time when her eyes are 
opened — when she sees him as he is — and there is no 
resurrection for a love that has died of its own un- 
worthiness. 

Constance realized all this, yet he had been the 
father of her children — she could never forget that. 
She did not see Lord Hardstock again. He bitterly 
resented her going at all, and somehow managed to 
enlist Mrs. Strangway ’s sympathies in his cause. 
Rebecca had never been troubled with much senti- 
ment, and spoke her mind very plainly to her sister. 
But Constance was inexorable. 

“ I do not think I even wish to remain,” she said. 
“ I shall be happier in London, where I can see you 
constantly ; and Arthur can go to school. Quite a 
little house will do for myself and Eva. I am rather 
surprised that you should not see things in the same 
light that I do.” 

“ I think you are nourishing an antipathy to a man 
who would be a friend to you if you would let him,” 
replied Rebecca. 

- “ A woman in my position must choose her friends 
with great caution. I believe that Lord Hardstock 
is sincere in his expressions of kindly feeling toward 
me, but that does not alter the fact that Greystone 
belongs to him, and that therefore it is impossible I 
can ever make it my home. ” 

“ He declares he will shut it up and never come 
near it again,” said Rebecca. 

“He must please himself,” answered Constance 
coldly. “ It is a matter of supreme indifference to 
me.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


Mrs. Armitage remained in Clarges Street with 
the Strangways until Christmas was over, and then 
she resolved to take a little pied-a-terre of her own. 
However small it might be she was certain that she 
would be happier in being independent. Arthur 
was sent to a public school, where, like most English 
boys, he was soon contented enough ; and Constance 
found a house in West Kensington, at a low rental, 
which she felt would suit her requirements. 

Rebecca saw no reason why her sister should not 
take up residence permanently with her; but to this 
Constance would not agree. There were many 
points on which she ^nd Rebecca differed, and it is 
rarely wise for very near relations to live together. 

But above and beyond all, there was one vital rea- 
son why Constance must have a home of her own. 
Little Eva, who was the apple of her mother’s eye, 
had become quite a bone of contention since she had 
been beneath her aunt’s roof. Mrs. Strangways was 
not accustomed to children. She was not particularly 
fond of them, and expected a uniform obedience and 
docility that she failed to find in Eva. That young 
lady was not a model child. She had been more or 
less spoiled all her life, and having been accustomed 
to an open-air freedom, she did not take kindly to 
the restrictions now imposed upon her. Constance 
felt that she would be entirely ruined if this stage of 
things was to continue. 

“ Eva is not a naughty child,” she remarked to her 
sister, when that lady had been enlarging upon the 
little girl’s mischievous proclivities. “You cannot 
expect an old head on such young shoulders.” 

38 


CONSTANCE. 


39 


“ My dear Constance, when I was a child I was 
made to behave myself. I had to sit still, whether 
I liked it or not ; and I do not see why the children 
of the present generation should be allowed to do 
exactly as they please.” 

Mrs. Armitage made no reply. She knew that 
Eva was very far from perfect; but, after all, her 
children were the two things on earth their mother 
loved, and their well-being would always come before 
every other consideration. 

At the end of a week Constance had settled down 
in her new home with a comfortable feeling that 
everything was very snug and cosy. Lord Hardstock 
had kept up the Greystone Park establishment pre- 
cisely as in its late owner’s lifetime, and Pratt, who 
had been with Mrs. Armitage for some years, was 
most anxious to re-enter her service. It gave Con- 
stance a real pang to be obliged to refuse, but the 
wages she had once given were far beyond her pres- 
ent resources, and she was disinclined to offer less, 
although, indeed, the woman was so devoted to her 
mistress that she w’ould gladly have taken what she 
could afford to give her. She therefore came to the 
conclusion that the matter was not to be thought of. 

“ But, ma’am, you must have somebody to do for 
you.” Poor Pratt was really wounded. It was 
difficult to make her understand that Mrs. Armitage 
no longer required a maid, and she went away feeling 
both hurt and angry. Perhaps Constance had never 
felt her loss of wealth so keenly as now. 

One morning when she came down to breakfast, 
she found a letter by her plate; it was from Lord 
Hardstock, and ran as follows: 

“ Dear Mrs. Armitage: — Perhaps you may have 
heard that I am sending the horses to Tattersall’s. It is 
extremel}^ unlikely that I shall remain here. In the 
mean time, your favorite mare, Judith, and your phaeton, 
will accompany the others, and await your instructions 


40 


CONSTANCE. 


where they are to be sent. I could not bear to think 
that Judith should be driven by any hand but yours. 
Then, too, you must have some means of getting about. 
You will not, I am sure, refuse to accept what, after all, 
is actually your own property. 

“ Always, sincerely yours, 

“ Hardstock.” 

Constance was troubled. No doubt the offer was 
kindly meant, and had been made with a good deal 
of tact. It was impossible that she could do any- 
thing but accept it in the same spirit, though she 
hated to place herself under an obligation to this 
man. It was gall and wormwood to her. Rebecca 
was loud in her praises when she heard of Lord Hard- 
stock’s liberality. 

“Upon my word,” said she, “you are a most un- 
reasonable woman. I cannot imagine what fault 
you have to find with the man. He is courtly and 
polished and handsome, and would do a great deal 
more for you, it you would only let him. ” 

“That is precisely the point,” said Constance, 
coldly. “ I prefer not to accept benefits at his 
hands.” 

Mrs. Strangways laid down her work and looked 
at her sister. “ You know that he has let Greystone, ” 
she said. 

“Yes, Pratt told me. It does not much signify 
who lives there, as I am never likely to cross its 
threshold again.” 

She sighed as she spoke, for it had been somewhat 
of a shock to learn that the property that should have 
been her boy’s had actually passed into the hands of 
strangers. 

“ Do you know how long it is let for?” 

“ No. What do you mean?” 

“This is what I mean, Constance,” said Mrs. 
vStrangways impressively, as she felt the occasion 
demanded. “ I mean that there can be only one in- 


CONSTANCE. 


41 


terpretation to be put upon Lord Hardstock’s action 
in the matter. He has let Greystone for one year 
only, leaving it optional whether he returns there or 
not.” 

“ How can that possibly affect me?” 

“ You must indeed be blind if you cannot see that. 
Constance, you must surely know that it rests with 
yourself whether you ever go back to Greystone as 
mistress.” 

Mrs. Armitage was too angry to make any reply. 
She was furious at Rebecca having hinted at such a 
possibility. With an effort she regained her self- 
control. 

“Will you kindly ring the bell, and let Wilson get 
me a hansom?” she said, as she rose from her chair. 
“ I am going home.” 

During the three or four minutes that elapsed be- 
fore the cab came to the door, the sisters sat in 
silence; and when Constance swept downstairs and 
out of the house with the coldest of good-bys on 
her lips, Mrs. Strangways realized that she had made 
a terrible mistake, and that despite her sister’s weak- 
ness and gentleness she could be roused to a very 
good imitation of what Rebecca called temper. 

As she drove home, Constance pressed her white 
teeth on her under lip. “ How dare she!” she cried. 
“ How dare she suggest anything so horrible! What 
have I ever done that she should say such things to 
me?” Arriving home, she walked quickly upstairs 
to the drawing-room, and stood face-to-face with Lord 
Hardstock. There he sat, comfortably ensconced 
in a big chair, with Eva perched on his lap, looking 
very much at home. What was Constance to do? 
There was but one thing possible — to hold out her 
hand in greeting. But there was no warmth in her 
manner, and she carefully refrained from expressing 
anything but surprise at seeing him. She unbut- 
tened her gloves and sat down, wondering how long 


42 


CONSTANCE. 


he intended to stay. As if he read her thoughts, he 
said, “ I have been waiting more than an hour to see 
you. I am only passing through town, as I am off 
to Monte Carlo.” 

Constance breathed more freely. 

“ Lord Hardstock would not have tea with me, 
mamma, because he said it was nearly your dinner 
time,” said Eva. 

“ I am afraid — ” began Constance nervously. 

“You are going out this evening? What a disap- 
pointment! I had hoped for a couple of hours’ chat, 
as I shall be off too early to-morrow to see you 
again.” 

Constance resigned herself to the inevitable. She 
told Lord Hardstock that she was going nowhere, 
and that if he would join her simple meal she would 
be pleased. Then she went upstairs wearily to lay 
her bonnet aside, and to reflect how awkwardly things 
had turned out 

“ Well, it cannot be helped,” she said aloud, as she 
smoothed her rufHed hair. “ It is better that he 
should remain an hour or two now, than come again 
to-morrow. ” 

As has been already said. Lord Hardstock was a 
brilliant conversationalist. No man could be more 
charming and amiable than he when he had a motive 
for being so, and to-night he was at his best. In 
spite of herself, Constance was amused and enter- 
tained. By neither word nor look did he offend. 
He was scrupulously careful to steer clear of any 
dangerous subject. After Eva had gone to bed, in- 
stead of going awa)^ as Mrs. Armitage expected 
him to do, he sat down at the piano and sang several 
songs — and sang them remarkably well. 

“You did not know I could sing?” he asked, with 
a twinkle in his eye, noting her astonishment. 

“No, indeed, I did not.” 

“ I wonder if you know very much about me in any 


CONSTANCE. 


43 


respect, Mrs. Armitage? Ah, I have led a curious 
life. I have been face-to-face with starvation more 
than once, and if any one had told me that I should 
wake up some fine morning and find myself rich, 
and still be unsatisfied and discontented, I should 
have thought it a good joke. And yet that day has 
come.” 

“ Sing me something else,” said Constance quickly. 

He smiled, and turned again to the piano. 

“Once, long ago, when the scent of the roses 
Lay in the light of the glad summer day. 

Some one I loved gathered one snow-white blossom 
And gave it to me as his ship sailed away. 

He said but one word — My darling, my darling ! 

I love you as dearly as e’er man loved yet; 

So ever since then the scent of the roses 
Awakes in my heart a strange throb of regret. 

Ever since then, ever since then. 

Ever since then, love, ever since then.” 

There were tears in Constance’s eyes when the 
last note of Hope Temple’s beautiful song died away. 
She was vexed with herself that she should be so 
moved. 

Lord Hardstock strolled over to the fire. “You 
are not looking well — a town life does not suit you.” 

“ On the contrary, I am in excellent health. I get 
a good deal of exercise, one way and another.” 

“ But you must miss the pure Norfolk air?” 

“No, I don’t think I do; and I am very fond of 
London. ” 

It was ten o’clock before Lord Hardstock took his 
leave. Constance was surprised to find it was so 
late. 

“I hope I have not outstayed my welcome,” he 
said, as he held the slim fingers in his own. And 
Constance almost blushed as she recalled her un- 


44 


CONSTANCE. 


graciousness. She had never liked him so well be- 
fore — or, rather, had never disliked him so little. 
vSatan can sometimes pass as an angel of light, and 
Lord Hardstock was not only a well-bred man, but he 
was quite clever enough to make the m.ost of an op- 
portunity. He had set his heart upon winning the 
love of this woman, and he was determined to move 
heaven and earth to insure his success. 


CHAPTER. Vlir. 


Mrs. Strangways might be forgiven for calling 
her sister inconsistent when she heard of that tete-a- 
tHe dinner, as she did from Lord Hardstock’s own 
lips. Constance doubtless had her reasons for acting 
thus, but it certainly looked odd. 

“I confess I do not understand,” said she to Mr. 
Strangways, “ why Constance should have marched 
out of my house in that high and mighty fashion 
simply because I hinted that Lord Hardstock was in 
love with her, and then have gone home and spent 
the evening alone with him.” 

But Mr. Strangways, poor man, had long ago 
given up all hopes of fathoming the vagaries of the 
gentler sex, and contented himself with mildly 
shaking his head. 

“She will explain her motives, I dare say,” he 
remarked blandly, with the laudable intention of 
pouring oil upon the troubled waters. 

But that is exactly what Constance did not do; 
indeed, she never referred to the subject at all. Con- 
sequently Rebecca waxed wroth, and at length could 
keep silent no longer. 

“ We are going to dine at vSir George Foster’s to- 
morrow,” she remarked, as she and her sister were 
driving together in the park (Sir George was a famous 
judge, and since their student days had been a great 
friend of Mr. Strangways). “I do wish you could 
have gone with us, you would have enjoyed it, I 
think.” 

“I very much doubt it,” said Constance, with a 
laugh. “ I know what those dinners are — tiresome 
and tedious in the extreme.” 


45 


46 


CONSTANCE. 


“You would, at least, meet one congenial spirit,” 
said Rebecca, somewhat sharply, “ Lord Hardstock 
is going to be there. 

Constance blushed guiltily. 

“ I thought — that is to say, I understood — that he 
had gone to Monte Carlo,” she stammered. 

“ Did you? That is curious. As a matter of fact 
I believe he did intend going there, had not some un- 
expected business cropped up to keep him in town.” 

Mrs. Armitage’s heart sank. She regretted her 
cordiality and civility now that she found that Lord 
Hardstock was to be at her riglit hand. In reality 
she had nothing to fear. Lord Hardstock was far too 
astute to push beyond proper limits any advantage 
he might have gained. He did not appear at the 
little manage inWest Kensington for more than a fort- 
night, and when he did appear he came under Mrs. 
Strangways’ wing. 

Rebecca would not have been happy if the rose- 
leaves of existence did not hold some thorns,, and 
Constance’s affairs promised a fertile ground for 
grumbling. The point which now troubled her was 
the lonely life her sister was leading. 

“ In the first place, it is not good for you, Con- 
stance,” she remarked one day; “and, moreover, it 
does not look well. You ought to have a compan- 
ion.” 

“ My dear Rebecca, what in the world should I do 
with one? I could not endure to have anybody at 
my heels all day long.” 

“ Surely you feel dull, sometimes?” said Lord 
Hardstock, who with Eva on his lap sat at some 
little distance. 

Constance did not reply, but she fixed a keen dis- 
trustful look upon him. Had he inoculated her sis- 
ter with these absurd notions? 

Then Rebecca took up the theme. “ Of course 
she must be horribly dull and lonely,” she said. 


CONSTANCE. 


47 


“ I am neither one nor the other. Eva is quite 
companion enough for me.” 

Rebecca caught gratefully at the mention of her 
niece’s name. “ For her sake, quite as much as your 
own, you really ought to have some one,” she said 
firmly. “ I suppose that it has never occurred to you 
that when you are away from home your child is left 
entirely to the servants. Besides, she is old enough 
now to receive some instruction.” 

Constance begun to waver. She was ready to do 
anything for Eva’s good, but she felt that if the 
child must be taught, she herself was the proper per- 
son to undertake the task. Then, too, it was annoy- 
ing that this discussion should have taken place in 
the presence of a stranger, and she could not but 
consider that her sister was wanting' in tact to have 
introduced it. 

“ There is ample time for stud}^ in Eva’s case,” she 
said quietly. “ At present I see no occasion for 
either governess or companion.” 

“It is a pity you should set your face against it,” 
answered Mrs. Strangways. “You are strangely 
perverse at times, Constance.” 

“ Am I? Well, you see, this is a matter in which I 
may, perhaps, be pardoned for considering myself 
the best judge.” 

“ I fail to see your reasons. ” 

“ There is one reason apart from everything else 
that would preclude all possibility of such a thing. 
With my present income I could not afford it.” 

“ That need not stand in the way, my dear Mrs. 
Armitage, if you will permit me to discuss the mat- 
ter with you,” said Lord Hardstock. “ I know of a 
charming woman who would be only too delighted 
to give her services in exchange for a home such as 
this would be. vShe is a lady in every sense of the 
word, and I am sure my little friend here would love 
her dearly,” he continued, bestowing a kiss on Eva, 


48 


CONSTANCE. 


who, small coquette as she was, hung her head 
bashfully, and then flung her arms round his neck 
and returned the embrace with interest. 

“ Your friend may be a model of all the virtues,” 
said Constance coldly ; “ but I do not intend to en- 
gage anybody. I could not possibly accept services 
for which I paid nothing; and, as I have already 
told you, my present expenses forbid me to add an- 
other member to my household.” 

“In that case, there is no more to be said,” an- 
swered Lord Hardstock. 

“How provoking you can be, Constance!” said 
Rebecca. “ Did you not hear that this lady would 
consider a home ample recompense for her services?” 

“ I repeat, that I should very much dislike any such 
arrangement.” 

“ Ah ! if you could only see Miss Baillie you would 
change your mind,” said Lord Hardstock eagerly. 
“ I am sure you would find her perfectly charming. 
The idea has only occurred to me since we have been 
sitting here. But if it could be arranged, it would 
be a positive boon to her, poor girl, for her income 
is so small since the death of her father — who, by 
the way, was colonel cf the looth Hussars — that it is 
absolutely necessary that she should find a home. 
It is really a great pity.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Armitage softly, “no doubt it 
is a pity.” And she adroitly turned the conversa- 
tion into another channel, and neither Lord Hard- 
stock nor her sister had an opportunity of referring 
to the subject again. 

But this was by no means the last that Constance 
was to hear of it. On the principle that constant 
dropping must wear away a stone, Mrs. Strangways 
instilled into Constance’s mind on every possible 
occasion the risk that little Eva ran of acquiring 
vulgar habits from intercourse with the servants, and 
as spring came round, Mrs. Armitage began to realize 


CONSTANCE. 


49 


that the child was left to herself a good deal, and 
was growing more wilful and less amenable to con- 
trol every day. 

At last, Mrs. Strangways carried her point. Con- 
stance would not have a companion for herself, but 
it might be better that her little girl should be under 
the care of a kind, good woman who would watch over 
her and check her faults — as poor Constance with a 
sigh acknowledged that she was incapable of doing. 

But it was a very great concession, and having made it 
she felt desperately inclined to revoke her promise. 

“ Understand one thing, Rebecca,” she said to her 
sister, a day or two later. I will myself choose the 
person to whom I intrust the education of my child. 

I am perfectly capable of forming my own opinion, 
and should not dream of engaging anybody whom I 
did not personally select. ” 

“ It is a pity you did not say so sooner,” cried Mrs. 
Strangways angrily, “ for I wrote to Lord Hardstock 
last night and told him that you had consented to re- 
ceive l^iss Baillie.” 

“You wrote to Lord Hardstock!” echoed Con- 
stance. “ Pray, what is the reason for this extraor- 
dinary interest you both appear to take in this person? 

I confess it puzzles me.” 

“ I never saw her in my life ; but from what I am 
told she appears to be exactly what you require. For 
goodness’ sake, Constance, try and be a little reason- 
able! I am sorry I have written, since you seem 
vexed at my having done so; but after what has hap- , 
pened I trust you will at least see the girl and judge 
for yourself. It can do no harm, and Lord Hardstock 
would think it so odd.” 

“ I think it odd, but I suppose that it is of no con- 
sequence,” reiterated Mrs. Armitage bitterly. “ Set 
your mind at rest, Rebecca. I will see this paragon, 
but remember that I will not be cajoled or coaxed 
into engaging her unless I choose to do so.” 

4 


5 ° 


CONSTANCE. 


“ Nobody could possibly wish that,” answered Mrs. 
Strangways, considerably relieved. 

Miss Baillie had certainly everything against her 
when she paid her first visit to West Kensington. 
Constance had fully made up her mind to decline her 
services. But at the end of a quarter of an hour 
Mrs. Armitage had begun to waver; before another 
five minutes had passed her objections and prejudices 
were melting one by one into thin air; and when the 
half-hour struck Eva was sent for, and Eva herself 
decided the question. “ I do not want Miss Baillie 
to go away, mamma. I love her.” 

The child had joined forces with the enemy, and 
Constance was routed. Miss Baillie was not in the 
very least like what Mrs. Armitage had expected her 
to be. Nothing had been said about her personal ap- 
pearance, and Constance had pictured her as tall, 
gaunt, and masculine; but Emily Baillie was a 
beautiful blonde, rather under than over the medium 
height, with heavy masses of sunny hair, and large 
brown eyes, and her voice was that most excellent 
thing in women — low and sweet. She gave Con- 
stance the impression of being much younger than 
she really was. It was a case of veni^ vidi, vici. 


CHAPTER IX. 


During the weeks that followed, Mrs. Armitage 
was compelled to confess that the governess was a 
success looked at from every point of view — all that 
could possibly be desired. Under her influence Eva 
became tractable and docile. The little child’s fits 
of passion were things of the past; she was bright 
and happy and devoted to her new friend. For once 
in her life, Constance acknowledged that her sister 
had been wiser than she, and half hesitatingly she 
thanked Lord Hardstock for having sent such a trea- 
sure. 

Rebecca held up her head with an affectation of 
superiority she often assumed when talking to her 
sister. 

“Your fondness for your child completely blinds 
you to her many faults,” she said. “It is a happy 
thing for her that we interfered, or assuredly she 
would have been entirely spoiled.” 

About the middle of March came an invitation 
from Gerald Armitage. Would Constance go to 
Paris to spend a month with them? It was a tempt- 
ing offer. 

“ Daphne is longing to be introduced to her sister- 
in-law,” wrote Gerald. “You shall be as quiet as 
you please — only come.” 

“If Miss Baillie were not here, it would be im- 
possible to leave Eva,” reflected Constance. “As it 
is, I really do not see why I should not go.” 

Rebecca was not very enthusiastic over the idea. 
She hinted that it was rather too soon to think of go- 
ing into society again. 

51 


52 


CONSTANCE. 


Her sister’s opposition determined Constance. 
She felt that it would be a real relief to ^et away for 
a time, and so she resolved to accept her brother- 
in-law’s invitation. After she had penned her note 
to him she sat irresolutely biting the top of her 
pen, and unable to make up her mind whether 
to write a certain other letter or not. For if she 
went to Paris she would of course see Basil St. Quen- 
tin, and she told herself that he would not take it 
kindly if she did not let him know she was going. 
She had had three or four letters from him in as 
many months. He was not a good correspondent, 
but somehow Constance, reading between the lines, 
was well satisfied with what they told. Finally, 
she dashed off a hasty line and sent the two letters 
out at once to be posted. 

With all the contrariety of woman, Mrs. Armitage 
felt somewhat hurt that Eva showed so little emotion 
at the prospect of her mother’s departure. She ought 
to have been relieved, since it undeniably made 
things smoother. Yet the foolish woman had some 
difficulty in restraining a tear. 

There was one person who, in common with Mrs. 
Strangways, would have put a veto on this visit if 
he dared; and that person was Lord Hardstock. 
During the month that Miss Baillie had lived with 
her. Lord Hardstock had been conspicuous by his 
absence, and for this Constance was duly grateful. 
She could never overcome a certain shrinking and 
aversion with which he had inspired her, though she 
took herself soundly to task for it. 

The afternoon before she left town, she found him 
in her sister’s drawing-room. She had wished 
Rebecca good-by, and it was quite an afterthought 
that she should have gone to Clarges Street at all ; 
but having forgotten a certain commission, she took 
Eva and her governess, and drove over in the pony 
carriage. 


CONSTANCE. 53 

Lord Hardstock was alone in the room when she 
went in. 

“ I was coming to see you to-night,” he said, with 
quite an aggrieved air. “ I think you might have let 
me know you were going out of town.” 

“Why should I?” answered Constance, with a 
laugh. “ I did not suppose you would be particu- 
larly interested in my movements. ” 

“ I often wonder if .you have the least idea how 
much pain you inflict upon me by affecting an ignor- 
ance respecting my feelings toward you.” 

Constance drew herself up and looked him full in 
the face. “ I am at a loss to understand what you 
can possibly mean,” she said icily. At that mo- 
ment, to her inexpressible relief, Mrs. Strangways 
entered the room, and the conversation became 
general. When she roso to go. Lord Hardstock ac- 
companied her downstairs, and helped her into the 
carriage, shaking hands with Miss Baillie and pinch- 
ing Eva’s soft cheek. When he had tucked the rugs 
closely, he bent his head humbly. 

“ May I come and make my peace this evening?” 
Constance colored, conscious that the eyes of the 
governess were fixed upon her. 

“ I am sorry that I shall not be at home to-night,” 
she said. “ So I will say good-by now. Lord Hard- 
stock.” 

Her fingers rested on his for a second only, and 
feeling considerably snubbed and crestfallen. Lord 
Hardstock went back to Mrs. Strangways. That 
lady was becoming quite an ally of his. Truth to 
tell, she felt sorry for him, believing that her sister 
was coquetting in a way that she could never have 
credited, and she was ready to do anything in her 
power to further his love-suit. Constance drove 
home at a pace she rarely indulged in, flicking her 
whip over Judith’s satin coat in a way wholly un- 
familiar to the gray mare. She was very angry. 


54 


CONSTANCE. 


Lord Hardstock seemed irrepressible. It seemed 
impossible to make him understand that his attentions 
were unwelcome. 

“ If it were for no other reason than to rid myself 
of him, I should be glad to leave London,” she said 
to herself, and on the morrow she left by the mid- 
day train. 

“ Yes, it’s very pleasant. I do precisely as I like; 
but it is the least bit embarrassing at times to parry 
questions. That pleasing little fiction about my 
father, for instance — the colonel of the looth Hus- 
sars — I could laugh when I think of it. ” 

Mrs. Armitage would have been very much aston- 
ished could she have seen her governess curled up on 
a couch in Lord Hardstock’s rooms in the Albany, 
with a cigarette between her lips. Luckily for 
some of us sinners, the instrument has not yet been 
invented that would enable our friends and acquain- 
tances to see over the miles of space that the tele- 
phone bridges. And so Emily Baillie smoked on in 
a blissful security. 

“ It’s too funny!” said the girl, with alow musi- 
cal laugh, as she lay and watched the rings of smoke 
above her head. And then her thoughts went back 
to the night, some six months ago, when she had 
first seen Lord Hardstock. Les Ambassadeurs, in 
the Champs Elysees, was crowded, and Emily, in 
virgin white, very ddcolletd but decidedly bewitch- 
ing, had trilled forth her song — which truth compels 
us to admit was somewhat spicy. . 

Lord Hardstock was charmed, and when Made- 
moiselle de Fanu, as she was styled on the pro- 
gramme, read the word or two handed to her by her 
dresser, she quietly put on her hat, adjusted her veil, 
wrapped a cloak round her, and joined her latest ad- 
mirer with the utmost sang-froid. 

The acquaintance thus begun ripened and ex- 


CONSTANCE. 


55 


panded into a very fair imitation of what, in the 
latter part of the nineteenth century, passes current 
for love. Anyhow, it was so, at least, on Lord 
Hardstock’s side. He swore that he could not live 
without Emily: that he had never been so hard hit 
before. He managed, at least, to convince Made- 
moiselle de Fanu that he was sincere, as he doubtless 
was. 

That young lady’s vanity was tickled. Her new 
conquest commended itself to her. She was tantaliz- 
ing and bewildering and — what surprised Lord Hard- 
stock more than a little — within a month after their 
liaison had commenced she began to speak of mar- 
riage, and indeed to name it as the price of her con- 
tinuing in his society. Lord Hardstock, of course, 
regarded the idea as utterly absurd. But Mademoi- 
selle de Fanu professed to take an entirely different 
view. 

“ Why should you not marry me?” she argued. 
“ I am fairly well educated, and I should pass muster 
in society. You would never be ashamed of me, 
although ! was born in a circus tent, and understand 
jumping through the hoops and the haul ecole. Ah, 
those were jolly days! How I hated Aunt Tabitha 
when she ‘rescued’ me, as she persisted in calling it, 
and sent me to school, where I was licked into shape 
and taught manners. But I have since learned to 
be grateful to her, although I shall always be more 
or less a bohemian. It is in the blood, I suppose.” 

“You will always be a beautiful woman, Emily,” 
Lord Hardstock answered admiringly, and then he 
changed the conversation. The subject of matri- 
mony was not at all to his taste. This was in the 
first golden days of August, and he had contrived 
never to lose sight of her since. vShe interested him, 
and he was never insensible to the charm of a beauti- 
ful face. At last he promised to marry her. Of 
. course, he never had the slightest intention of keeping 


S6 


CONSTANCE. 


his word, but the promise successfully satisfied any 
misgivings Emily herself might have had, and she 
was perfectly content. Then Lord Hardstock sud- 
denly discovered that this girl might be made very 
useful to him, and on the pretence of wishing her to 
associate with that society she would ultimately enter, 
he persuaded her to accept her present position in 
Mrs. Armitage’s household. 

“You like your life then?” asked Lord Hardstock, 
after a pause. 

“ Like it!” she echoed. “ If you were sent to pri- 
son, would you like it?” 

“It will not last long,” said he. “You must be 
patient, my darling.” 

“ All the same, I don’t see the use of it. It is 
horrible being on probation, as it were.” 

“ You shall not stop a day longer than you wish.” 

“ It is so dull,” said Emily, with a yawn. “ There 
are no visitors except women, and not many of them. ” 

“It agrees with you, nevertheless.” Lord Hard- 
stock’s eyes travelled down the beautiful figure in its 
clinging draperies, and its rounded contours and 
voluptuous curves. “ A lazy life suits you.” 

“ I warn you that it won’t suit me for long,” she 
cried rebelliously. “You will have to marry me 
soon, Rupert, or ” 

“There is no need for threats,” he said sulkily. 
“ When the right time comes I shall keep my word.” 


CHAPTER X. 


Constance had rarely seen so lovely a woman as 
her sister-in-law. It seemed very absurd to call her 
a woman; she was nothing more than a beautiful 
child, with soft dark hair, cut aross her brow in a 
quaint old-fashioned style that suited her to perfec- 
tion, and two delicious dimples keeping guard over 
her rosy mouth. When Mrs. Armitage saw her first 
she was dressed in a loose white gown, girded at the 
waist with a broad gold belt, and fastened on each 
shoulder with a clasp of the same, leaving the white, 
soft, rounded arms bare. Then, too, she was such a 
tiny little body — scarcely reaching to Constance’s 
shoulder, and being compelled to raise herself on 
tiptoe to embrace and bid her welcome. 

“Well, Daphne, she is here quite safely, you see,’’ 
said Gerald with a smile. Mr. Armitage had met 
his sister-in-law at the station and escorted her to the 
Faubourg St. Germain himself. “ My wife has been 
imagining all sorts of horrors,” he added, turning 
to Constance. “ She was certain that there would be 
a storm in the Channel, or that the train would run 
off the line.” 

“ What a shame!” cried Daphne. “ I never imag- 
ined anything so foolish. All I said was that I 
should be afraid to travel alone.” 

“Well, curiously enough, this is my first experi- 
ence,” said Mrs. Armitage, “ but I have not met 
with a single misadventure, and the journey has been 
a remarkably pleasant one.” 

And then Daphne carried off her visitor to the 
pretty guest-chamber, where everything was the per- 
fection of daintiness and comfort. 


57 


CONSTANCE. 


S8 


“ Do you think you will manage to like me?” she 
asked gravely, as she shut the door and looked up 
wistfully into Constance’s face. 

Mrs. Armitage was not an emotional woman as a 
rule, but something moved her to draw the little 
figure into her arms and kiss the upturned childish 
face warmly. And so began a friendship that was 
to be very precious to them both. 

But before many days had passed, Constance’s eyes 
were opened to the extreme wilfulness of her little 
sister-in-law. It must be confessed that Daphne’s 
character was by no means so perfect as her face and 
figure. Like the majority of her sex, her temper 
was very variable, and when she was annoyed she 
lost all control over herself. Then, too, she was vain 
and greedy for admiration. Warm-hearted, loving, 
and affectionate as the little lady undoubtedly was, 
Constance trembled for the peace of mind of Daphne’s 
husband. 

Gerald himself broached the subject as he and his 
sister-in-law strolled leisurely through the Tuileries 
Gardens. “Well,” said he, “I am waiting for 3’our 
congratulations or condolences on my marriage. My 
friends have not spared me, I can promise you. The 

male kind have congratulated me, but the ladies ” 

he shrugged his shoulders, and broke off impatiently. 

“ ‘The women pardoned all except her face,’” 
quoted Constance softly. 

, “ Her beauty is undeniable. Tell me just what 
3^ou think, Constance. I would rather have your 
honest opinion than that of any one I know. ” 

“ I think,” said she, slowly and thoughtfully, “ that 
there must be an immense deal of tact and discretion 
on your part if you are to be happy together.” 

“You are right,” said Mr. Armitage, with a sigh. 
“ It was only the other day that I heard myself de- 
scribed as the husband of a spoiled baby. Yet I am 
the happiest man in the world.” 


CONSTANCE. 


59 


Instinct seldom plays a woman false. Would it — 
could it — last? reflected Constance. They were such 
heedless little hands to hold a man’s happiness, and 
yet this man had surrendered his whole life into 
their keeping without a single misgiving, showering 
the rich treasures of his love upon his child-wife, 
withholding nothing, giving of his best right royally. 
So few of us either understand or practise economy 
of the affections. 

But it was a narrow, selfish little soul which Con- 
stance strove to gauge, utterly incapable of appre- 
ciating the devotion of the man she called husband. 
Daphne’s own interests and pursuits were ever up- 
permost. The caprice of the moment must be grati- 
fied at any cost, and her world was bordered by 
purely sensuous glorification of her small self. But 
it might well be that there were depths untouched, 
unreached, beneath the surface worthlessness, and 
that something noble and beautiful would yet blos-^ 
som from amid the weeds and tares. 

Constance had been in Paris four days when a 
letter was brought to her one morning, and a faint 
color tinged her face when she opened it. 

“With your permission, my dear Daphne,’’ she 
said, “ I shall have a visitor this afternoon. Mr. St. 
Quentin, a very old friend of mine, is coming to call 
on me.” 

“Old?” said Daphne, puckering up her face. 
“Oh, dear! they are always old — perfect antedilu- 
vians — all Gerald’s friends.” 

“He is not old in that sense of the term,” an- 
swered Constance. “ He is about my age, or a year 
or two my senior — I am not quite sure.” 

“And is he handsome? Do say that he is hand- 
some.” 

“Yes, you will think so, I dare say.” 

“Then I am happy!” Daphne lay back in her 
chair and clasped her plump hands behind her head. 


6o 


CONSTANCE. 


“Young- and handsome — it will be my first experi- 
ence of the article since I married.” 

A cloud rose to Mr. Armitage’s face. In his opin- 
ion jesting such as this was unseemly. 

“ I should imagine that Constance will prefer to 
receive her visitor alone,” he remarked pointedl}^-; 
but his sister-in-law vehemently negatived any such 
idea. 

“ Certainly not!” said she. “We have no secrets 
to discuss, I can assure you.” 

Mr. St. Quentin was unfeignedly pleased to meet 
Mrs. Armitage again, but he thought her looking 
pale and thin. 

“ The life in London does not suit you, I am 
afraid,” he said anxiously. But Constance shook 
her head and declared that she was in perfect health. 

“Why, I have seen you before,” cried Daphne, 
when presented to the young man, a delicious blush 
creeping over her pretty face; “ but I cannot recollect 

where. I think it was ” and then she came to a 

full stop, and looked up beseechingly into the dark 
eyes fixed upon her. 

“It was at Galignani’s, mademoiselle,” he an- 
swered. “You were with your father, I believe.” 

Daphne broke into a ringing laugh. “ I am ma- 
dame,” she cried merrily, “and the gentleman you 
refer to was my husband.” 

“ I beg a thousand pardons. ” 

It was certainly somewhat of a surprise to Mr. St. 
Quentin to find that the young lady who, while her 
companion was engaged in turning over some new 
books at Galignani’s, had amused herself by return- 
ing his admiring glances should prove to be Mrs. 
Armitage’s sister-in-law. But lovely and fascinating 
though Daphne undoubtedly was, Basil was a good 
deal disappointed to find that he was not to see Con- 
stance for five minutes alone. It never entered 
Daphne’s giddy little pate to imagine that she might 


CONSTANCE. 


6l 

be in the way, and Constance, too, perhaps refrained 
from touching on certain subjects she might have 
discussed had it not been for her sister-in-law’s pres- 
ence. 

“ We shall meet again soon, I hope,” he said, as he 
rose at length to take his leave. 

“Oh, yes,” cried Daphne; “come as often as you 
like, and stay as long as ever you can. We are 
horribly dull sometimes.” The moment the door 
had closed upon the young man, she turned to Con- 
stance and said triumphantly: “ Gerald cannot possi- 
bly object, you see, because he is your friend. I am 
sure he would not be inhospitable and surly. That is 
his great fault, you know,” she added, lowering her 
voice. “He is jealous! Isn’t it ridiculous? I am 
sure he might go out every night of his life if he 
wanted to. I should not care a scrap so long, of 
course, as I was permitted to enjoy myself. I think 
it is stupid to see so much of one another; don’t you? 
I do so long for a little variety sometimes. ” 

She looked so sweet and lovable as she trilled out 
her little heresies, that, genuinely shocked though 
Constance was, she felt tongue-tied. One might 
with as much show of reason have argued with a 
baby. Daphne had not the faintest conception that 
she was saying anything she ought not to have said. 

A few days later, Basil St. Quentin was invited to 
dine with the Armitages, and spent a very pleasant 
evening. Daphne was bubbling over with life and 
spirits. She was quite irrepressible, and although 
Mr. Armitage kept a disapproving eye upon her, in 
blissful ignorance of anything amiss she chattered, 
laughed, and looked her brightest and loveliest. 

“What a butterfly she is!” whispered St. Quentin 
to his old friend. “ A beautiful woman without a 
soul.” ^ 

Constance looked at him quickly. He, at least, 
had not fallen a victim to the blandishments of the 


62 


CONSTANCE. 


siren. And she was glad of it, though she could 
hardly have explained the feeling of uneasiness that 
had taken possession of her since these two had rec- 
ognized each other. 

“She is wonderfully warm-hearted,” she replied, 
taking up the cudgels. “ I have become very much 
attached to her. She is such a child that one cannot 
expect a great amount of sense and decorum. She 
is barely eighteen, and lived a life of the most perfect 
seclusion in the house of her guardian, Mr. Benbow, 
a wealthy tea-planter in Assam, where my brother-in- 
law met her, and fell in love with her.” 

“It strikes me that he will find her a handful,” 
said St. Quentin indifferently. The next moment he 
bent forward, and in an altered tone added : “ I 

have so much to talk about, and so much to ask, 
and so much to listen to. Am I never going to get 
you to myself? ” 

“ It may be a little difficult, but perhaps it may be 
managed,” she answered. “ My sister-in-law is go- 
ing to spend next Tuesday with some friends at 

Neuilly. If you like to call then ” 

“ I will. Thank you so much. ” 

Constance felt like a conspirator, and pushed her 
chair further back, nor did they speak again until 
Daphne sprang up from the music stool. “There,” 
she cried naively, “ I have not made a single mis- 
take from beginning to end. I really think I ought 
to be praised, and my head aches, terribly. You 
see, you can't give the proper amount of expression 
unless you thump the notes well. ” 

After their guest was gone, and husband and wife 
were alone. Daphne drew a low stool to Gerald’s side 
and nestled her dark head against his shoulder. 

“ It is nice to have visitors sometimes,” she said, 
in a cooing tone ; “ now, confess that it is. ” 

“ Perhaps you are right ; but I, for my own part, 
am very well content with you, my darling. ” 


CONSTANCE. 


63 


“We have been married ten months, and it is high 
time that we remembered the world holds some one 
else but ourselves.” 

“ And shall we be happier for the knowledge? ” 

“I shall,” answered Daphne promptly. 

“ My sweet child, I fear sometimes that I am too 
old and grave for you,” he said earnestly. “But 
with all my heart I love you and wish only for your 
happiness.” 

She made him no reply, but she rubbed her soft 
cheek up and down his arm in a pretty kittenish 
wa)^ 

Daphne hated sentiment. She was a practical 
little woman in many things, and what she had not 
objected to in the honeymoon, when all was new and 
strange and wonderful, now appeared to her absurd 
and unneeessary. 

“You like Mr. St. Quentin, dear?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, I like him well enough.” 

But it was not of his sister-in-law’s friend that he 
wanted to converse, and he turned away with the 
unsatisfied feeling he so often experienced. Daphne 
gathered up the train of the cream-colored gown 
she wore, and laughingly declared she would get no 
beauty sleep if she did not hurry off to bed at once. 

“ If my roses fade, there won’t be much left worth 
having,” said she. 

And very possibly Daphne was right. 


CHAPTER XL 


Constance kept her word, and had a quiet hour’s 
chat with St. Quentin during the following week. 
Daphne had taken her coquettish little self away, all 
unconscious of the small conspiracy against her. At 
the young man’s suggestion, Constance instructed the 
maid that as her mistress was not at home she her- 
self would not be visible to anybody, and this se- 
cured peace and privacy. 

“And now tell me everything,” said St. Quentin, 
feasting his eyes on the sweet face of his companion, 
when at last they found themselves alone. 

And Mrs. Armitage did tell everything, without 
reservation. 

St. Quentin’s brow darkened as he listened. “I 
utterly mistrust Lord Hardstock,” he said curtly. 
“ I implore you to be careful not to get into his 
power. ” 

“ It is only fair to say that he has behaved very 
generously to me,” replied Constance. “Indeed, he 
would have done still more for me if I would have 
permitted it. ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Armitage, as a woman of the world 
you must know that there can be but one interpreta- 
tion to be put upon his actions. You either like him 
well enough to take what he offers, or ” 

Breaking off abruptly, he quitted her side and 
strolled over to the window, where he stood looking 
out for several minutes. Then he turned round, and 
in quite an altered tone started a fresh subject; nor 
did he return to Lord Hardstock, for which Con- 
stance was profoundly grateful. “What with Re- 

64 


CONSTANCE. 


65 


becca on one side, and Mr. St. Quentin on the other, 
it seems that I am never to be left in peace. It is 
really too bad!” said the poor lady to herself. 

But looking back on that lengthened tcte-a-tcte, 
Mrs. Armitage was surprised at the amount of plea- 
sure she had taken in it. She was always at her 
brightest and best when in St. Quentin’s society, and 
more at ease with him than with anybody else. The 
truth was, she felt that he understood her and sym- 
pathized with her. A woman’s instinct is rarely 
wrong, and in her heart of hearts Constance knew 
that Basil had drifted perilously near the narrow 
boundary that divides friendship from its tropical 
sister, love, and that it only needed a word from her 
to precipitate an avowal. Communing with her own 
soul, she told herself that this man was worthy of 
affection. Then she hid her face in her hands with a 
sigh. 

“ He ought to marry a young and innocent girl,” 
she thought bitterly, “not a woman worn and sad- 
dened as I am — as I must ever be. It is but the 
dregs of life that I should give him in exchange for 
this loyalty. After all, a woman who is a mother 
should never marry again.” She felt inclined to 
chide herself for having, even for a moment, allowed 
the possibility to cross her mind. 

But the -question was not to be so lightly dis- 
missed. This time it was the heedless Daphne who 
broached the subject. 

“What curious creatures men are!” she cried. 

“ Gerald declares that Mr. St. Quentin is violently 
in love with you. I am afraid my husband is a 
great donkey,” she continued, with a little air of , 
self-consciousness that was eminently amusing. 
“Anyhow, he has no eyes. After all, it is perhaps 
better that he should think that you are the attrac- 
ion that brings Mr. St. Quentin here so often.” 

“ Then do you not think that I am? ” 

5 


66 


CONSTANCE. 


Daphne looked up in wonder into her sister-in- 
law’s face. 

“Why, no,’’ said she, “of course not.’’ 

“You mean, then, that you are?” 

This was plain speaking, and Daphne looked some- 
what embarrassed. 

“ In that case, you would be acting both wrongly 
and foolishly in inviting him here so often,” said 
Constance gravely. “ Merely to gratify your own 
love of admiration, I am sure that you never could 
be so wicked as to ruin the peace of mind of one man 
by encouraging a hopeless passion, and — what is of 
far more importance — wreck the whole life of 
another. I mean your husband. Forgive me, my 
dear little sister, if I who am so much older give you 
a word of warning and point out the obligations of a 
married life. Be true to your nobler and better self, 
rise above the trivialities and follies that are so dear 
to you now ; for, believe me, the only real pleasure 
and happiness for any one is to be content in doing 
her duty.” 

“ Dear me, what a tirade!” laughed the girl mock- 
ingly. “ What have I done to bring such a storm 
down onto my head? ” 

Constance was silent. By and by Daphne’s heart 
rebuked her, and she stole softly to her sister-in-law’s 
side. 

“ Forgive me, ” she said humbly ; “ I am afraid I am 
very wilful and perverse, but sometimes” — and then 
she hesitated and looked down — “ sometimes I feel 
I ought never to have married. It is horribly wrong, 
I know; but don’t you think it is — a little disappoint- 
ing? One expects so much and finds so little. It 
is like going to a grand concert or an oratorio — 
very nice at first, but dreadfull)^ fatiguing and mo- 
notonous at the finish. If only one need not always 
be on one’s best behavior!” she continued. “The 
devil gets into me often and whispers ‘ Do something 


CONSTANCE. 


67 


outrageous,’ and then I long t*o shock everybody. 
Some day I shall succeed in doing so, and then, Con- 
stance, can’t you picture Gerald’s face? Don’t you 
know exactly how he would - look, and the funny 
little proper expression that would come. round the 
corners of his mouth — ‘ My dear Daphne, you forget 
that you are a married woman now, ’ ” she said, 
mimicking Gerald’s tone with an accuracy positively 
startling. 

Constance sighed, and then she took the sweet child- 
face between her hands and drew it down to hers. 

“ Don’t you love your husband. Daphne?” 

“ Define love first,” cried the girl, “ and then I will 
answer your question. What is love? A sentiment, 
an emotion, as evanescent as the breath we draw — 
something that is both pleasure and pain — an un- 
named desire, born of the senses, defying reason and 
wisdom.” 

“ That is not my idea of love,” said Constance. “ I 
look upon love as the exquisite accord of two hearts 
that beat in unison, their thoughts and aspirations 
intermingled, the one divine thing in humanity — 
God-given, heaven-sent.” 

Daphne leaned both elbows on her sister-in-law’s 
lap, and with her dimpled chin resting on her hollow 
palms looked demurely up into Constance’s face. 

“And is that what you felt for Cyril? ” she asked. 
“ What a happy woman you must have been, Con- 
stance.” 

Whether she spoke mockingly, from a wish to turn 
the tables on her mentor, or purely in ignorance, 
Mrs. Armitage could not determine. 

“After all,” said Daphne to herself that same 
evening, as she fastened a spray of roses at her 
slender throat, “ I begin to suspect that Constance 
has a regard for Mr. St. Quentin, whatever he may 
have for her. I think I shall watch her.” 

The fact of knowing that her brother-in-law had 


68 


CONSTANCE. 


discussed the point with his wife made Mrs. Arm- 
itage nervous and self-conscious, and destroyed all 
the pleasure she would otherwise have felt in Mr. 
St. Quentin’s society. Instinctively the young man 
became aware that she avoided him, and he felt hurt 
and wounded. Constance was associated with the 
holiest and best part of his nature. She was one of 
the women by whom men are redeemed — who un- 
consciously raise them above the common herd. 
Not even to himself had he dared to say that he 
loved her. That she had been thoroughly unhappy 
in her married life with Armitage he could not but 
know, and there had been a mutual understanding 
between them, begotten of common sympathies, 
similarity of tastes, and unit)^ of opinion ; but now 
the bond was strengthened. He told himself that it 
was a mere question of time, and that he could aff ord 
to wait. It never even entered his head that his 
pretty little hostess could for a moment construe his 
attentions into anything approaching an attachment 
for herself. He would have laughed prodigiously at 
the notion. 

It was natural to him to drop his voice with a 
caressing intonation when he spoke to a woman, and, 
like many other men, he had a trick of holding slim 
white fingers a second or two longer than occasion 
absolutely demanded. Another fault of his was that 
his dark, handsome eyes seemed to tell a tale that of 
a surety his lips would never have uttered. With a 
conscience guiltless of all wish to attract the empty- 
headed little butterfly, it never occurred to him that 
lookers-on might put a different interpretation upon 
his actions. But as the days passed by, and brought 
the young man constantly to the Faubourg St. Ger- 
main, Constance began to have an uneasy conscious- 
ness of trouble ahead, and to look forward with a 
sinking heart to his next visit. The colder and 
more distant her manner became, the more he was 


CONSTANCE. 


69 


thrown on Daphne’s good nature and amiability, 
until at length Mr. Armitage had a word or two to 
say on the subject. 

“What brings that young man here so often?” he 
one day asked his wife. Daphne turned upon him a 
surprised, innocent look. 

“ Why, you yourself told me that he wanted to 
marry Constance.” 

“Does she want to marry him? Because if not, I 
don’t care to have him everlastingly about the place.” 

“ Upon my word, your courtesy is only equalled 
by your hospitality,” cried Daphne, much nettled. 
“ Goodness knows I have had a dull enough life, 
. without losing the only friend I have.” 

“Are you referring to Mr. St. Quentin?” asked 
her husband. 

The extreme frigidity of his tone brought Daphne 
to her senses. 

“I might as well be a nun at once,” she cried, 
with flashing eyes and crirhson cheeks. “ I believe 
3^011 would like to keep me under lock and key.” 

“ My dear little child, I should be quite capable of 
even that enormity if I saw good cause for it.” 

After that. Daphne said no more. Indeed, she felt 
herself entirely worsted. But Gerald Armitage had 
made the greatest mistake of his life in raising a 
feeling of fear in his wife’s bosom. She was so 
young that if he had taught her to love him he 
might have done anything he liked with her; but 
when he began to threaten, he roused a feeling of 
rebellion within her that was very hard to allay, and 
thus turned a dangerous weapon against himself. 


/ 


CHAPTER XIL 


Constance was both surprised and vexed when, 
coming in from a drive in the Bois, she found Lord 
Hardstock quietly seated in salon engaged in con- 
versing with her brother-in-law. 

“ ‘ Hast thou found me, O my enemy?’ ” was in her 
heart, but she somehow managed to force the con- 
ventional greeting. 

“And what has brought you here?” she asked, 
when the door shut upon her brother-in-law. 

“A steamer and a couple of trains,” he replied 
airily. “ Did you imagine that I had come by bal- 
loon?” 

“You must know what I mean,” answered Con- 
stance. Never before had she allowed her temper 
so far to get the better of her good breeding. She 
was literally quivering with indignation. Lord 
Hardstock pulled his chair closer to hers, and then 
asked a somewhat irrelevant question. 

“ How long is it since you heard from home?” said 
he. 

Mrs. Armitage turned pale. 

“ Is anything wrong?” she asked quickly. “ F'or 
pity’s sake, tell me. Is it Eva?” 

“Compose yourself. You have no need to be 
alarmed. Your little girl has scarlatina — a mild 
attack, and is doing well. Miss Baillie is with her 
night and day. Knowing how worried you would 
be, I would not let them write to you about it. I 
saw Dr. Dale, the physician, who was called in, the 
last thing before I left town, and have since received 
a line from him which will, I am sure, allay your 
fears. ” 


70 


CONSTANCE. 


71 


“ And you came here purposely for this — to break 
the news to me?” 

“I did.” 

Mrs. Armitage felt rebuked for her impatience 
toward this man, who in every untoward event in 
her life seemed fated to stand between herself and 
harm. She could not help wondering why it was 
that she could not bring herself to like him better. 
But there was real warmth in her manner, and 
genuine gratitude in her tone, as she stretched out 
her hand to him. 

“ I thank you,” she said simply. 

Lord Hardstock stooped his head and pressed a 
light kiss on the slender fingers. As he was in the 
act the door opened, and Daphne’s eyes rested on 
them both. Mrs. Armitage snatched her hand 
away, terribly embarrassed, and proceeded to pre- 
sent her visitor to her sister-in-law ; but there was a 
curious look of mischief in Daphne’s eyes as she 
apologized for her intrusion. 

“ I had no idea that Lord Hardstock was here,” she 
said, with a swift glance at Constance’s distressed 
face. “ I supposed it was only Mr. St. Quentin.” 

Lord Hardstock started. So St. Quentin was a 
visitor here. He felt that he had not come a da5^too 
soon, and he began to think that it was quite provi- 
dential the child should have fallen sick and given 
him such an excellent excuse for a visit to Paris. 

When Mr. and Mrs. Armitage heard that a wish 
to save Constance a shock had. brought hirn thither, 
they were loud in their praises of Lord Hardstock ’s 
forethought and kindliness. 

“ You are to be congratulated on your friends,” re- 
marked Gerald, a trifle dryly. And Constance was 
unable to make any reply. 

Despite the encouraging letter which Dr. Dale 
had sent, Constance felt that she could not be happy 
away from her darling, and determined to return 


72 


CONSTANCE. 


home at once, and Lord Hardstock was delighted at 
the happy accident that permitted him to be her es- 
cort. ^ 

Somewhat grieved at Mrs. Armitage’s avoidance 
of him, Basil St. Quentin allowed a day or two to 
pass by before he again called at the Faubourg St. 
Germain, and he was amazed and mortified to dis- 
cover that Constance had gone back to London. 
“ She might at least have sent me word,” he said to 
himself. ' 

As a matter of fact, Constance had done so, and 
had given Daphne a letter to post, but that far-seeing 
young woman had judged it wiser to retain it, telling 
herself that she would deliver it to Mr. St. Quentin 
personally when he called, as he was sure to do if 
kept in ignorance of her sister-in-law’s departure. 

Now Daphne forthwith forgot all about the letter 
until three weeks after, when she drew it from her 
pocket soiled and crumpled, and then, without the 
faintest scruple, tore it into shreds. She came to 
the conclusion that it was too late to forward it to 
its rightful owner. After all, it could scarcely have 
been of much consequence. 

With mingled feelings of vexation and pain St. 
Quentin learned that Lord Hardstock had accom- 
panied Mrs. Armitage to London. “ Surely that was 
unnecessary,” he reflected. “ If Eva was ill, and her 
mother felt that she could not trust her to any one’s 
nursing but her own, it was only natural that she 
should bring her visit to an abrupt termination ; but 
she might have arranged matters so that Lord Hard- 
stock did not leave Paris at the same time.” The 
more he thought over the matter the more angry he 
became. 

“Do you know Lord Hardstock?” asked Daphne, 
all smiles and coquetries, and it must be confes.sed 
well pleased to have the field to herself. 

“Yes; I know him.” 


CONSTANCE. 


1Z 


“ Is he not delightful?” 

“I dare say some people think so,” answered St. 
Quentin sulkily. “ For my part, I must admit that 
he is not a favorite of mine.” 

“Mr. St. Quentin is jealous,” reflected the vain 
girl. “ He does not like me to sing Lord Hard- 
stock’s praises.” Then she added, in a tone of con- 
viction that put the finishing stroke to St. Quentin’s 
ill-humor: “He is a very particular friend of Con- 
stance’s.” 

“ Mrs. Armitage is unfortunately one of those per- 
sons who lack the courage to let a man see when his 
attentions are unwelcome,” said St. Quentin. “The 
more she disliked a person the greater would be the 
pains she would take to hide it from him.” 

Daphne laughed. “ But I happened to know,” she 
said impressively, “ that Constance has a very warm 
corner in her heart for Lord Hardstock.” And she 
pursed up her rosy lips and looked wondrous wise. 
“ I suppose I ought not to say a word to anybody ; 
but after all nobody asked me not to tell, and it can’t 
do any harm, for you don’t count. We are such 
good friends, are we not?” 

St. Quentin was on tenter-hooks, but ten seconds 
later would gladly have gone back to a troubled 
uncertainty rather than have heard Daphne’s much 
elaborated story of what she had seen and heard. 

“ I felt so much in the way, really, I hardly knew 
what to do. They both looked so foolish ; but, 
really, how was I to suppose anything of that sort 
was going on?” 

“ No, indeed. How could you possibly guess?” 
St. Quentin laughed aloud, but he felt that it was 
impossible to pursue the subject further, and rose at 
once to make his adieux. 

“Oh! you are not going?” 

- “I am afraid I must. I am very sorry.” The 
young man tried to infuse a modicum of regret into 


74 


CONSTANCE, 


his tone, but his attempt did not altogether deceive 
his listener. 

She looked down and said: “You will come and 
see me still? I am so lonely — always.” 

She was very pretty. Her limpid eyes shone with 
something very like tears, and she put forth a little 
warm trembling hand that seemed lost in his huge 
fist. St. Quentin pulled himself together with some- 
thing like a start. It is curious how the baser part 
of a man’s nature gets the better of him at times. 

“You are very good,” he said; “yes, I will come 
again.” And then he dropped the clinging fingers 
and got himself away in hot haste. But it was not 
with the alluring little Circe his thoughts were 
buried as he strode along, but with a woman whom 
he had fondly believed to be above and beyond the 
petty meannesses of her sex, who had stooped to de-, 
ceive him, and had thrown dust in his eyes by affect- 
ing a repugnance to the man whom she permitted to 
caress her. It was positively sickening, he thought. 
Was there no such thing as honesty and sincerity in 
a woman? Were they all alike, and had Constance 
Armitage her price in common with the rest of her 
sex? Lord Hardstock was rich; and she who had 
once enjoyed every luxury that money could pur- 
chase might well be forgiven if she looked back with 
longing eyes on the flesh-pots of Egypt. And thus 
the man who professed to love poor Constance cruelly 
wronged her in his heart. 

Nothing could exceed Lord Hardstock’s delicacy 
and tact on their tete-a-tete journey. Without inflict- 
ing his companionship on her when Constance 
wanted to be alone, he yet contrived to be within 
hail whenever he was required. He felt that he 
could afford to play a waiting game now that he had 
trumped his enemy’s card. And when the train 
steamed slowly into Charing Cross Station, and he 
proposed putting Mrs. Armitage into a hansom that 
she might lose no time in getting home, he gained 


CONSTANCE. 


75 


his reward, for in some little surprise she looked up 
at him : “ Are you not coming with me?” she asked. 

Of course, it would have been more diplomatic to 
have declined ; but that was a sacrifice Lord Hard- 
stock felt to be beyond him, and so without more ado 
he took his seat beside her, radiant and jubilant. 

“ I could scarcely do less,” Constance told herself. 
“ After his extreme kindness and attention it would 
have been most ungracious to act otherwise. ” When 
she found Mrs. Strangways waiting for her in her 
little drawing-room, with a cosy meal all ready pre- 
pared, she felt that she had made a mistake, for Re- 
becca bestowed the warmest of welcomes upon Lord 
Hardstock, and with a quick glance Constance 
noticed that the table was laid for three. By and 
by she began to see that she had been unnecessarily 
alarmed, for Eva seemed much the same as usual, 
and the attack had been a very slight one. Miss 
Baillie was in attendance, and looked worn and pale. 

“ I have been very anxious, ” said that lady simply, 
when Mrs. Armitage commented on her looks ; “ but 
all is going on well, and I cannot be sufficiently 
thankful.” 

“How good you are!” cried Constance, with 
glistening eyes. “ My darling, what can we do to 
show our gratitude to kind Miss Baillie?” she asked 
Eva. 

“Yes, I have been an awful nuisance,” remarked 
the little invalid naively. “ I heard her say so. 
O mother! I have such a big doctor — ever so nice. 
You will see him to-morrow.” 

“And who is he?” asked Constance. “Did you 
send for him. Miss Baillie?” 

“I did,” answered that lady. “I happened to 
notice his name on the door when we were out walk- 
ing, and, not knowing who your own medical man 
was, I sent for him.” 

“You acted quite rightly. Is he a clever man?” 

“ I think so. Eva has become quite attached to 


76 


CONSTANCE. 


him. Dear Mrs. Armitage, I am sure you must want 
some tea. Do go down now, and I will get my little 
patient to sleep.” And so Constance went softly 
away, congratulating herself for the twentieth time 
that she had such a treasure as Miss Baillie to rely 
upon. 

It was late when Lord Hardstock left West Kens- 
ington. He had lingered a few minutes after Mrs. 
Strangways had gone, and Constance again expressed 
her gratitude for the trouble he had taken on her 
behalf. He shut the hall door, and when he was a 
few paces from the house he paused to light his cigar. 
As he did so, a gentle touch fell on his arm, and a 
sweet voice at his elbow whispered, “ Forgive me. 
I could not have slept if I had not seen you for a 
second.” 

“Emily, what madness!” He spoke angrily — she 
had taken him so much by surprise. Wrapped up in 
the thought of Constance, he had forgotten her very 
existence, and it came upon him as an unpleasant 
reminder. 

“Oh, do not scold me, darling,” she said. “One 
word of love, and I will go.” 

She was covered from head to foot in a long cloak, 
the hood of which fell back on her shoulders, and 
she lifted her beautiful face pleadingly. 

“Foolish child,” he cried, trying to speak lightly, 
but in a very panic of fear lest there should be a 
spectator of the annoying scene. The street was 
deserted — not a soul was to be seen from one end of 
it to the other. 

“You will come again soon — very soon?” 

“Yes, yes, I promise. Run back, little one; you 
should not have risked this.” 

“ I would do more than that for a caress. I get so 
few now,” she whispered, her lips very close to his. 
And then he stooped and kissed her once, twice, 
thrice, and so sent her back happy and comforted. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Two days after Mrs. Armitage returned home, 
Miss Baillie took the scarlatina and became seriously 
ill. Standing bareheaded in the chill night air, 
after passing so many hours in a heated atmosphere, 
may have had something to do with it, but no one 
suspected her of such imprudence. 

Dr. Dale became very anxious about her condition. 
He was a remarkably handsome man, considerably 
above the medium height, with the most beautiful 
eyes that Constance thought she had ever seen in her 
life. The first question he put to Mrs. Armitage 
took her somewhat by surprise. 

“ I am afraid your governess is going to be seriously 
ill,” he said. “ Has she friends by whom she could 
be nursed?” 

“After her devotion to my little girl, the very 
least I can do for her is to nurse her here.” 

Dr. Dale smiled — and a very strange smile it was 
— but said no more. 

Miss Baillie was a most difficult patient — restless, 
irritable, and unwilling to believe that she was 
really ill at all. At the end of the second day, Con- 
stance abandoned the idea of nursing herself, and 
Mrs. Strangways sent her own special factotum, by 
name Dyne, to take her place. Dyne was quite a 
character in her way. A tiny little woman, some- 
where about fifty years of age, but looking at least 
ten years older, with a skin like parchment, with- 
ered and yellow, keen black eyes, and a mouth 
pursed up into a buttonhole. Like most of her 
class, she was much given to fault-finding, and des- 
77 


78 


CONSTANCE. 


potic to the last degree ; yet she possessed a warm 
and kindly heart, and would have given her life 
for any one who found favor with her. And this all 
unconsciously Constance had done. 

“Bless her sweet face; they won’t easy find her 
match,” the old woman muttered, as she took her, 
place by the bedside. “ Always thinking of others. 
Now what must she be like, I am wondering?” she 
continued, as she took a long, steady survey of Emily 
Baillie as the invalid lay asleep. 

No one was the wiser for the conclusions she 
formed on the subject, for she did not speak again. 
It was, however, no secret in the household, as time 
went on, that Mrs. Dyne had not fallen in love with 
her patient. 

“ Beautiful she maybe,” she remarked to the cook; 
“ I am not denying what she is. But then, you see, 
there’s two sorts of beauty, just as there’s two sorts 
of angels, and I haven’t quite made up my mind as 
to which sort she belongs to.” 

For several days Miss Baillie was in a dangerous 
condition, but at last she took a turn for the better, 
and very slowly began to mend. Convalescence is 
always more trying to an invalid than actual suffer- 
ing. It is only as strength comes back that we real- 
ize how’ weak we are, and Miss Baillie was no 
exception to the general rule. She was perverse, 
ungracious, and even cross to old Dyne, whom she 
secretly abhorred. But there was one person who 
always found her charming and delightful. Dr. 
Dale w’as fast losing his heart. He really thought 
that Mrs. Armitage’s governess was the sweetest 
woman he had ever seen, and Miss Baillie would not 
have been a true daughter of Eve if she had not been 
fully aware of the fact. She smiled her brightest, 
and lifted her beautiful eyes with a world of coquetry 
in their gaze to his, but never for a single instant 
did she swerve from her allegiance to the man who 


CONSTANCE. 


79 


had scarcely even troubled to ask after her well- 
being. All the heart that Emily Baillie would ever 
give to any man, she had surrendered into his keep- 
ing, and she had not the faintest suspicion that Lord 
Hardstock was playing her false. 

One evening Dr. Dale paid a late visit. He had 
been detained in the country all day, and was un- 
willing to go home without the certainty that all 
was progressing favorably with his interesting pa- 
tient. 

“Oh, sir, I am so glad you have come,” said the 
maid who opened the door to him. “ We were just 
going to send round.” 

“ Why, what is amiss?” 

Almost before the words were uttered, a woman’s 
piercing scream rang through the house, a door on 
the upper landing opened hastily, and nurse Dyne’s 
forbidding face looked down on them. 

“You’d best come up,” she said angrily. “A 
pretty job I’ve had.” 

Dr. Dale dashed upstairs, saying: “What is it? 
Hysterics?” 

“ No, tantrums. She has just laid there and yelled 
until I am fair deafened.” 

Miss Baillie was crouched in a large easy-chair, 
silent for the moment, but as the doctor approached 
her she burst anew into sobs and shrieks, her body 
writhing, her hands and limbs working convulsively. 

“What have you done for her?” 

Dyne turned on him like a tigress. “ She may 
thank her lucky stars that she’s only just got over 
the fever, or I’d have doused her with a pail of cold 
water that would have brought her to her senses.” 

Dr. Dale pointed to the door sternly. “ Leave the 
room,” he said. -“ You are not fit to have charge of 
an hysterical patient until you have learned to con- 
trol your own passions.” 

Dyne would like to have rebelled, but, as she after- 


8o 


CONSTANCE. 


ward said: “There is something creepy-like about 
the doctor. I can’t exactly give it a name, but 
something as makes you feel you dursn’t go against 
him.” And she moved slowly across the room and 
stood outside the door. 

“Get up,” said Dr. Dale, putting his hand lightly 
on Miss Baillie’s shoulder. 

She neither stirred nor spoke, but he could feel 
her quiver beneath his touch. 

“Get up,” he said firmly, and she lifted her face-, 
white and tear-stained, for a second, only to drop 
back again, crying and sobbing. 

He then raised her to her feet, trembling in every 
limb. 

“ Try and stand,” he said. 

“ I can’t — I can’t.” 

“ Yes you can. It is the effort only that is want- 
ing.” 

She tried to obey, but she was terribly weak, and 
sank back half fainting. He lifted her in his arms 
and laid her on the bed. 

“ Poor child!” he said gently. Presently he went 
to the door and opened it. “ Mrs. Dyne,” said he,“ be 
so good as to undress Miss Baillie. I will be back 
again in a few minutes .” He spoke as if nothing 
had occurred, and Dyne was only too pleased to note 
his demeanor. With gentle hands she began to 
undress the almost unconscious girl, and then set to 
work to put everything ship-shape before the doctor 
returned. 

Suddenly Miss Baillie started up in bed, laughing 
wildly and flinging her arms above her head. To 
remonstrances and arguments she was alike deaf. 
Peal followed peal of hysterical laughter, while the 
tears coursed down her cheeks. In the midst of it 
all Dr. Dale came in. He walked straight to the 
bed, forced the sobbing girl back upon the pillows, 
and held her there, fixing his eyes upon her, and 


CONSTANCE. 


8l 

holding his breath. She shivered and shrank, 
cowered like a leaf, and then she lay still — con- 
quered. His grasp relaxed, he turned his eyes away 
from her for an instant, and in that second her eyes 
closed, the eyelids fell over them, and a faint sigh 
parted her lips: She was asleep. For fully an hour 
Dr. Dale sat motionless, his arms folded ; at last he 
rose. 

“Good-night, Mrs. Dyne,” he said quietly. “I 
shall be here early to-morrow morning. The patient 
won’t wake before then.” 

“ Lord love you, sir, she’ll be that restless and fid- 
gety the whole of the blessed night. She always is. ” 

“ Not to-night, Mrs. Dyne. Take my word for it, 
she will not move as much as a finger. You may go 
to sleep yourself with a safe conscience.” 

And although Dyne shook her head and pursed 
up her mouth with an air of superiority. Dr. Dale 
proved to be right, for Emily Baillie slept as peace- 
fully as a baby, and was still slumbering when the 
doctor paid his next visit. He took the small hand 
in his and counted her pulse, then laid her arm 
gently back upon the coverlet. 

“ Mrs. Dyne, will you fetch me a tumbler and a 
tea-spoon?” he said. 

“A tea-spoon is here, sir, but a tumbler — well 
now, that careless housemaid has not taken away 
the dirty ones. I won’t keep you a minute, sir.” 

It was little more than a minute he wanted. He 
stooped over the quiet form on the bed, and laid 
a finger on each eyelid with a gentle pressure. 
“Wake up,” he said loudly. The color came 
faintly to her face and with a sigh she woke. 

“You!” she said, looking up at him mistily. “I 
was dreaming of you.” 

A puzzled expression came over her face, and she 
turned on- her pillow with a frown. Clearly her 
dreams had not been to her liking. 

e 


82 


CONSTANCE. 


At this juncture the grim Dyne made her appear- 
ance with a tumbler. The doctor took it and dropped 
some colorless liquid into it from a phial in his 
pocket, then filled it up with water. 

“Drink this,”, said he, “ and you will feel a thou- 
sand times better. ” 

She obeyed without a word, and then closed her 
eyes. 

“ I shall call in again about four o’clock. Keep 
her very quiet. Recollect that she is not to get up. 
And you had better darken the room.” 

Dr. Dale found Mrs. Armitage waiting for him 
when he reached the hall. 

“Is she very ill?” she asked, looking pale and 
harassed. 

“ Not now. She has been suffering from excessive 
weakness which naturally followed the fever, but I 
think I may promise that she will now make stead)^ 
progress toward recovery, and be downstairs again 
very shortly.” 

“ Oh, I am so relieved ! I really was quite fright- 
ened.” 

“ Perhaps you are not a hysterical subject your- 
self, Mrs., Armitage. ” 

“ No, I am thankful to say I am not,” she said. 

“What a contrast between the two types of 
woman,” said Dr. Dale to himself, as he walked 
thoughtfully down the street. “ The one so calm 
and dignified and restful — the other a bundle of 
nerves ; and yet ” He broke off and sighed im- 

patiently. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


From that day Dr. Dale acquired an influence over 
Emily Baillie that puzzled as much as it vexed and 
annoyed her. She was uneasy in his presence, and 
though she avoided meeting his glance she could feel 
his eyes looking into hers and filling her with subtle 
fancies. When he was gone she breathed freely. 
The girl was too much in love with Lord Hardstock 
to have room in her heart for any other wooer. 
What, then, was the strange power that held her 
spell-bound in the doctor’s presence — that made her 
long for him when he was gone, and shrink abashed 
when he approached her? She asked herself this a 
thousand times, but was unable to give any satis- 
factory reply. 

“ I am afraid Miss Baillie will not be strong for 
some time,” said Mrs. Armitage to Dyne, who, al- 
though no longer in attendance on the governess, 
was remaining at West Kensington during the ab- 
sence from town of Mrs. Strangways. “ She has 
lost her pretty color,” continued Constance, “and 
looks quite different since her illness.” 

“ I only hope you may not find yourself deceived in 
her, ma’am. It is not for the likes of me to speak; 
I knows that; but she’s not much good to anybody. 
I’m thinking.” 

Constance looked distressed. It was not her way 
to gush over anybody, and beyond a certain admira- 
tion of Miss Baillie’s charms of person and manner, 
she had no great affection for her; but she could not 
forget how the governess had devoted herself to Eva, 
and nursed her faithfully, and had paid the penalty 
by falling ill herself. 


83 


84 


CONSTANCE. 


“O Dyne! I don’t like to hear you talk in such 
a strain,” she said, in tones of rebuke. “Why 
should you speak ill of her, poor girl?” 

Dyne muttered something under her breath that 
sounded like “ humbug. ” 

“She is not that,” said Constance earnestly, “and 
so long as she performs her duty as nobly and well 
as she has hitherto done, I must refuse to listen to 
anything you may have to say against her.” 

“Well, I only hope you may not find it out for 
yourself, ma’am,” snapped Dyne, determined to have 
the last word. 

Emily Baillie was very unhappy. Five long 
weeks had she spent in her sick room, and no single 
word had reached her through all that weary time 
from the man who had promised to marry her. 
Surely he might have found some means of com- 
municating with her. She knew he came some- 
times to see Mrs. Armitage, and once she had heard 
his voice in the hall speaking to Eva, and in a very 
agony of suspense and longing she had dragged her- 
self to the door that she might get a glimpse of his 
dear face. Apparently he had forgotten her very 
existence. 

“When shall I be well enough to go and see him?” 
she asked herself peevishly. “ It is no use my writ- 
ing to him ; he would be afraid to risk sending me a 
reply, and "i have no other way of getting it. I 
sometimes wish I had never come here. I was much 
happier in the old life. ” And she fretted and worried 
herself to such an extent that Dr. Dale asked her 
point-blank if she had any mental trouble, or if she 
could tell him what it was that was keeping her 
back from recovery. 

“ I suppose everybody gets the blues sometimes,” 
she said evasively. “ I am restless and eager to be 
myself again, I think. I never remember being ill be- 
fore, and it is an experiment I shall not care to repeat. ” 


CONSTANCE. 


85 


“ You have not always been a governess?” - 

“ No, never until I came here. I do not think I 
shall remain long. ” 

Dr Dale hesitated If he had ever doubted what 
his feelings for Miss Baillie actually were he could 
do so no longer. What had been but a spark now 
sprang to flame within him, and he knew that there 
would be neither peace nor rest for him henceforth. 
He could not let her go from him, and he flxed his 
eyes, full of passionate love, upon her while he sought 
for words in which to confess his secret. Sud- 
denly Miss Baillie rose from her seat, and threw 
up her hands with an appealing and deprecating 
gesture. 

” Don’t!” she said. “ I can’t bear it,” and so sank 
back shivering. This masterful mesmerism was to 
her simple torture. 

In a moment or two he was at her side. “ Forgive 
me,” he said. “God knows I love you too well to 
give you a moment’s uneasiness.” 

“You love me?” she answered, her face alight 
with a strange, weird light. Standing in the pillory' 
of her own past life, seeing herself the accursed 
thing she was — fallen from the pedestal of true, pure 
womanhood — they seemed strange words: strange 
and incomprehensible. Mechanically she repeated 
them. 

“Yes, dearest one, I love you. I am a poor man, 
struggling to make a living; but if you will give 
yourself to me, you shall never regret it. All that 
a man can do to make a woman’s life bright and 
beautiful, that will I do.” 

Miss Baillie ’s eyes filled with tears, and seeing 
them Dr. Dale’s heart sank. “There is some one 
else?” he said abruptly. 

“Yes.” 

“ I ought to have known it. ” But the blow was 
none the less a heavy one. “ You will not let this 


CONSTANCE. 


g6 

make any difference between us?” he said by and 
by. “ You will let me be your friend — always?” 

“ Always, I hope. ” 

“ Sit down.” He pulled a chair forward, and tak- 
ing her hand in his, said : “ I want you to know my 

sister. She is about your own age. I am sure you 
would like her. Will you come and see her some 
afternoon?” 

Emily accepted the invitation. But she was vexed 
that matters should have precipitated themselves. 
Dr. Dale, as an admirer, might be tolerated; but 
anything else was out of the question. 

Whatever faults Miss Baillie had, she was at all 
events both loyal and constant. She liked this man 
a little, and she feared him a great deal. She re- 
belled against the influence he had over her, and at 
the same time was drawn to and attracted by him. 
She did not pause to analyze her feelings, but she 
felt that he was her master, and she would have set 
him at defiance if she had dared to do so^ He had 
said that he loved her — the pitiful, faulty, erring 
woman she knew herself to be. Her face worked 
curiously, and a softened expression came over 
it. He loved her, and wished to make her his 
wife. He had faith in her, believed in her vir- 
tue and purity. “ Heaven be thanked there is no 
one to tell him what I am,” she whispered, with dry 
lips. 

Two days later she stole from the house unnoticed 
and unseen. The suspense and misery were more 
than she could bear. vShe must at all hazards see 
Lord Hardstock, and she considerably startled that 
nobleman, who had been informed only an hour or 
two before by Mrs. Armitage that Miss Baillie was 
not downstairs yet. 

What a sad little face it was! The curved lips 
drooping, and the great mournful eyes bigger than 
ever. Before Lord Hardstock had time to realize 


CONSTANCE. 87 

that she was there, she had flung herself wildly into 
his arms and was sobbing on his bosom. 

“ Oh, do not send me away again ! I cannot live 
without you. ” 

“ What an infernal nuisance these emotional women 
are!” thought Lord Hardstock, as he pressed a care- 
less kiss on her forehead. But one might as well 
have expected peace and quietness in Emily Baillie 
as calm and equanimity in an earthquake. 

“ My poor child, you are weak still.” 

“ No, not now — not now, when your arms are 
round me. I have wanted you so much. Rupert, I 
began to think that your love for me was growing 
less. Look at me — speak! Tell me that I am the 
one woman in the world for you — that you love me, 
and me only, still.” 

Lord Hardstock began to wonder, as he held her in 
his arms, how much she suspected or knew. He felt 
that it would be worse than folly to argue with her. 
She was very fond of him, and although he did not 
love her, still she was a beautiful woman, and she 
was his. Her heart pulsed swiftly back to every throb 
of his, and her clinging arms, and warm breath, and 
the scent of a flower at her throat, affected him 
powerfully. She was all woman now, tempting, 
maddening, and alluring. 

A wise man has told us that there are depths in a 
man that go to the lengths of lowest hell, and there 
are heights that reach to highest heaven; for both 
heaven and hell are made out of him, made by him, 
everlasting miracle of mystery that he is. 

An hour later, they still sat facing each other — the 
man bored and listless, the woman with an air of 
happy content to which she had so long been a 
stranger. 

Suddenly Emily broke the silence. “ I have had 
an offer of marriage,” she said. 

“ You?” So startled was her companion that only 


8S 


CONSTANCE, 


by an effort could he restrain himself from speaking 
words that must have opened her eyes to the actual 
state of affairs between them. 

“Yes — I,” she answered, nodding her head. “Is 
it very wonderful?” 

“ And what did you say, Emily?” 

“ I said I had already given my promise. ” 

“You did not mention my name, I hope? You 
could never have been so rash as to have done 
that. ” 

“ There is no need to worry yourself. I merely 
mentioned the fact that I was already engaged. ” 

“ What sort of man is he?” 

“ He is a very handsome man, but as poor as 
a church mouse,” she answered, shrugging her 
shoulders discontentedly. 

“ What is his name?” 

“ Dr. Dale. Are you jealous, dear?” 

Lord Hardstock laughed, but it was not a pleasant 
laugh to listen to. “ You might do worse, Emily?” 
he said. 

“Yes, I dare say I might. But I am going to do 
a very great deal better. O Rupert, how much 
longer am I to wait? I shall run away some day, 
and then yon will have to marry me. ” 

His brow darkened. “ If you were so utterly in- 
different to your own good name and character,” he 
said coldly, “you could hardly expect me to be 
more considerate.” 

“ Then you would refuse to make me your wife?” 

“ Most assuredly I should. ” 

She grew very pale. “ I was but in jest, ” she said. 
“ I will do all you wish. Only remember that I am 
very unhappy away from you, and I can know no 

happiness until ” Her voice broke down, and she 

turned away. 

Perhaps his heart smote him a little, and after she 
was gone he told himself angrily that he was in a 


Constance. 89 

tness, and that if he was not careful she would ruin 
everything with her restless impetuosity. 

“ There is no such thing as a happy medium in 
women,” he said to himself savagely. “ Either they 
are as cold as ice and as unapproachable as polar 
bears, or they are demons of passion, and tear and 
destroy everything before them.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


A MAN and a woman rarely agree as to the merits 
of another woman ; and despite the fact that Janet 
Dale and her brother were of one mind about most 
things, they fell out over Emily Baillie. 

Perhaps Janet declined to be hoodwinked, and, 
putting two and two together, arrived at a conclusion 
not far from the actual truth. 

It must not be supposed that Dr. Dale had lived 
to thirty years of age without any kind of love ex- 
perience. But until now Janet had been his confi- 
dante, and into her sympathetic ears he had poured 
all his hopes and fears. Now, for the first time, she 
found herself left out in the cold, and it was not a 
pleasant sensation. Feeling her ground cautiously, 
she came to the conclusion that her brother had not 
as yet actually committed himself, but that things 
were in abeyance, and that it rested in a great mea- 
sure with herself to keep them so. 

To do Janet justice, she would never have allowed 
her own personal likes and dislikes to have swayed 
her in the matter if she could have brought herself 
to believe that a union with Miss Baillie would be 
conducive to the future happiness of her brother; 
but she did not believe it. She was a shrewd, 
clever girl, and had gauged Emily at her right 
worth. “ She shall not play fast and loose with my 
brother, ” she told herself resolutely 

“Don’t you think her very beautiful, Janet?” 
Brother and sister were seated at the breakfast-table 
the morning after Miss Baillie ’s visit. 

“ Yes, she is certainly a lovely woman ; but I don’t 
90 


CONSTANCE. 9I 

like her. There is something hollow and artificial 
about her. ” 

“ I am very disappointed. I Wanted you two girls, 
to be friends. ” 

“Why?” asked Janet bluntly. 

Dr. Dale looked into his teacup with an air of em- 
barrassment that was not lost upon his sister. 

“ Her life is a lonely one. She is out of her ele- 
ment in that house altogether.” 

“ I can well believe that,” said Janet, speaking in a 
dry tone that grated on her brother’s ear. She had 
met Mrs. Armitage once in the street, and little Eva, 
who had hold of her mother’s hand, ran impulsively 
up to Dr. Dale; and then Mrs. Armitage had paused, 
and the ladies were presented to each other. Finding 
that they were going in the same direction, they 
walked side by side, and although Janet was only 
ten minutes in Mrs. Armitage’s company, she had 
been much struck with her gentle dignity and sweet- 
ness. She felt certain that Emily Baillie was cast in 
another mould. 

“I thought,” continued Dr. Dale, “ that you would 
have had tastes and pursuits in common.” 

“ Then you were never more mistaken in your life. 

I doubt if we should agree upon a single subject. I 
am sorry you asked her to come again. ” 

“ And so am I, if you have made up your mind to 
dislike her,” said Dr. Dale, pushing his chair back 
and rising from his scarcely tasted breakfast. 

Janet could not keep back the tears that welled up 
in her eyes. “ To think,” she said, “that we should 
fall out over such an absurdity. It is too ridiculous. 
He has had nothing to eat, and he will be out until 
half-past one. It is too bad, indeed, it is too bad ! ” 

Emily’s first visit to Dr. Dale’s sister was not a 
propitious one. 

“ Have I your permission to receive a visitor? ” 
asked Miss Baillie, a day or two later. 


02 


CONSTANCE. 


“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Armitage, and then she 
hesitated. “I so much wish,” she added kindly, 
“ that I cotild make you feel more at home. I see 
that you are not happy, and it troubles me. Your 
goodness to my darling, and your long illness, should 
have drawn us closer together. Will you not tell me 
how I can repay a little of the debt I owe you? ” 

Emily was mute. She felt herself such an arrant 
humbug — a living lie — and she hated herself for her 
duplicity. Yet she knew that she was in the toils, 
and that she must wear the mask a little longer. She 
could not say : “ I am unworthy of your interest in 

me. I have been deceiving you from the first. 
Mine has been a shameful past, and I am not even 
of gentle birth, as you imagine.” She reflected that 
she had obtained her situation through Lord Hard- 
stock’s instrumentality, and in exposing herself she 
must also accuse him. 

“ Indeed you have always been most kind to me,” 
she said at length, “and I am feeling quite well 
enough to return to my duties again — I should be 
happier, I think, if you would allow me to do so.” 

“ I am afraid of your overtasking your strength ; 
but you shall do as you like in the matter. When will 
your friend be coming to visit you? I ask because I 
will arrange that you shall have the drawing-room 
to yourselves. ” 

“ Thank you, that will be quite unnecessary. It 
is only Miss Dale, the doctor’s sister, who is likely 
to come and see me. I called there the other day, 
and she will probably return my visit. ” 

Now Constance felt that she could read between 
the lines, and her heart beat with genuine delight. 
So the young people had fallen in love with each 
other. They would make a charming couple. And 
this, then, was the secret of the doctor’s untiring in- 
terest and zeal in his case. 

“I have met Miss Dale once,” said Constance, 


CONSTANCE. 


93 


“and I thought her a remarkably intelligent and 
pleasant girl.” 

“ I cannot say I thought so. She struck me as 
being not only stupid but sullen.” 

“ Perhaps Miss Janet does not relish the notion- of a 
sister-in-law,” thought Constance, somewhat puzzled 
to account for the irritability in Miss Baillie’s man- 
ner and the ill-concealed venom in her tone. “ She 
is not nearly so handsome as her brother, ” she re- 
marked. 

“ In my opinion, she is a fright. I do not know that 
I consider Dr. Dale a good-looking man — indeed, be- 
yond the fact that he has beautiful eyes there is 
nothing remarkable about him one way or the other; 
but he is a gentleman, and always courteous and 
polite.” 

“Yes, indeed he is. I liked him from the first; 
and as for Eva, he has quite won her heart. A man 
who will go out of his way to give pleasure to little 
children must have a kindly nature. He will make 
some lucky woman a very good husband.” 

“ Don’t you think there are other qualities re- 
quisite?” asked Emily, with an air of amusement. 
She saw the error into which Constance had fallen, 
and was bent on disabusing her mind. “ Let me see. 
First he must be rich, or at all events well-to-do, 
and able to keep his wife in comfort. That, I am 
persuaded, is out of poor Dr. Dale’s power.” 

Down went Constance’s castles in the air. There 
was no mistaking the sincerity with which Miss 
Baillie aired her sentiments. If she had been ever 
so little interested in him she could never have 
spoken thus. 

“There must also be a good deal of love,” said 
Mrs. Armitage. “ Money is not everything, al- 
though I grant it is a concomitant to happiness.” 

“ I should think it was!” cried Miss Baillie, shrug- 
ging her shoulders. “ As far as I can judge, it is the 


94 


CONSTANCE. 


very basis of conjugal felicity. It is all very well 
to talk of love and affection, but when the money 
takes wings to itself, as the proverb says, they will 
follow very quickly. 

“What shall we have to eat, eat, eat? 

Will the love that you’re so rich in 
Light a fire in the kitchen 
Or the little god of Love turn the spit, spit, spit?” 

“Oh! is it a story?” cried a voice at the door. 
“ O Miss. Baillie, are you well enough to tell stories 
again?” 

Emily laughed. “Come here,” she said, “and 
I will tell you about a beautiful lady who had two 
suitors for her hand. Now one of them was as ugly 
as an ogre, but he was rich ; and the other was as 
handsome as Adonis, but he had no money. Which 
do you think she chose?” 

Eva looked uncertain. “The handsome one?” 
she risked. 

“ No, the rich one.” 

“ Oh, and was she happy ever after?” 

“Well, you see the story stops there, and so I 
don’t know.” 

Miss Baillie lifted Eva in her arms and carried her 
off to the school-room, and Mrs. Armitage was left 
with a faint sensation of uneasiness stirring within 
her. Somehow Miss Baillie had shown herself in 
a new and altogether unfavorable light, and Con- 
stance felt a little puzzled. 

Miss Dale paid her visit, the conventional time 
having elapsed before she did so, and Emily with 
her little charge received her. The governess felt 
that the child would be a diversion, and help to make 
things go smoothly, for she was perfectly aware that 
the doctor’s sister did not approve of her, and indeed 
was altogether antagonistic; but she was hardly 
prepared for the tragic result of her manoeuvres. 


CONSTANCE. 


95 


Having commented on that never-failing topic, 
the weather, Miss Dale drew Eva to her side, and 
began questioning her about her amusements and 
lessons. 

“Oh, I don’t learn now,” answered the child. 
“ Miss Baillie has been ill, you know, and Dr. Dale 
cured her. I think he liked doing it” 

“ Doctors are always glad when they make sick 
people well,” said Janet, in the same way as she 
would have said “a stitch in time saves nine,” or 
“ a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” 

“Yes, I know, but my doctor was not glad when 
she was cured. I heard nurse Dyne say so. Dyne 
said ‘Miss Baillie’s getting well too fast to please 
some folks. There won’t be any pills and physic 
any more, and there won’t be no excuse. ’ ” 

“ Eva, Miss Dale is not interested in hearing what 
that atrocious old busybody had to to talk about.” 

Janet sat bolt upright in her chair, too incensed to 
allow herself to speak. 

“I don’t think Dyne liked my doctor,” continued 
Eva, when the silence was becoming too awful, and 
neither of the girls seemed as if they could break it. 
“She called him ‘poor fool of a man,’ and said that 
‘any one with half an eye could see that he would 
soon be taken in and done for. If ’ ” 

“ Eva, go to the nursery, and wait there until I 
come !” 

Something in Miss Baillie’s tone conveyed to the 
child’s mind that she was in disgrace, and she looked 
from one to the other appealingly. 

Miss Dale rose with a great deal of dignity. 

“ Pray do not send the child away,” she said. “ I 
must say good-afternoon now.” Barely touching the 
tips of Emily’s fingers, she swept by her to the door. 

Miss Baillie stood for several minutes uncertain 
whether there was more cause for anger or merri- 
ment. The latter conquered, and she laughed aloud. 


96 


CONSTANCE. 


“You small firebrand! I wonder if you have 
any notion of the mischiefy ou have done,” said 
she, looking down at Eva,' who was clinging to her 
skirts, 

“I do not like her. Do you?” whispered the 
child. 

“We ought to love everybody, ” answered Emily, 
with a sudden recollection of her responsibilities as 
a governess. “ It is wrong to dislike people who 
have done us no harm. ” All the same she cordially 
agreed with Eva’s sentiments, and in her heart de- 
tested the doctor’s sister. 

“ But I think I am even with her,” she told herself 
triumphantly. “She won’t relish the aspect of 
affairs, and I only hope she won’t be enlightened as 
to the truth of the matter.” Nor was she. Janet 
Dale left West Kensington miserable and crestfallen. 
If the very servants had begun to gossip about the 
matter, there was no longer any room for hope. 

“Oh, how can men be so blind?” she said to her- 
self. “ Because that girl has a pretty face she can 
do as she likes, and worthier women — nobler and bet- 
ter in every way — must go to the wall unnoticed and 
unloved. It does seem unjust and unfair.” 

There was a certain Mary Mellish, a daughter of 
a physician in large practice living in Hampstead, 
whom Janet had selected from among her friends as 
a fitting wife for her brother. The young lady in 
question could not boast of any great amount of 
beauty, but she had a loving heart and a pair of 
capable, willing hands. She would make a help- 
meet for Dr. Dale in the true sense of the word, and 
he had spoken Avarmly in her praise until Miss Baillie 
with her fatal fascination had crossed his path ; and 
now he had eyes for no other woman. 

Dr. Mellish was well advanced in years. It was 
more than likely that if young Dale became Mary’s 
husband he would be taken into partnership by his 


CONSTANCE. 


97 


father-in-law. To Janet’s mind^ her brother was 
simply cutting his throat by throwing away such. a 
chance. 

“One thing is certain,” she told herself. “Miss 
Baillie shall not make her acquaintance with me a 
stepping-stone to the furtherance of her machin- 
ations, for if she calls again I shall not be at home. 
I simply refuse to know her. ” 

7 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Early in June, Constance went to Scarborough, 

“ I think we’ shall be all the better for the change,” 
she said to Miss Baillie. “ Scarborough will be less 
crowded now than later on, and I for one shall enjoy 
it more. Arthur will not have his holidays until 
August, so it is no use waiting for him.” 

Emily, of course, acquiesced, though she \yould 
infinitely have preferred to remain in London. 
However delightful Scarborough might be, it could 
have no charms for her, since she would be separated 
from Lord Hardstock. 

Every month that wore itself away seemed to be 
widening the gap between them; she saw less and 
less of him, and even in the stolen moments which 
she snatched now and again she could not blind her- 
self to the fact that he was not as passionately de- 
voted to her as he had been. She had battled with 
the world too long to believe implicitly in the vows 
of a man in the position of Lord Hardstock makes to 
a girl situated as she was, and yet she could not bring 
herself to doubt him. He had promised over and over 
again that he would marry her, and she felt that he 
could not be so base as to wish to cheat and trick her. 
She told herself as much with quivering lips and fast 
beating heart. 

When the day was fixed for their journey to Scar- 
borough, she wrote Lord Hardstock a hurried little 
note, begging him to make an appointment for the 
following evening, for she had much to say to him 
before she left London. 

With a curl of his lip, Lord Hardstock tossed the 

98 


CONSTANCE. 


99 


letter into the fire. Truth to tell he was heartily 
sick of the whole business, and cursed the hour 
when he turned his steps toward Les Ambassadeurs. 
The girl was really lovely in her way and he had 
been very fond of her once; but that was months 
ago. His feelings had undergone a considerable 
modification since then, and now his principal thought 
was how it would be easiest to get rid of her. 

Emily’s letter remained unanswered, and Emily 
herself was in a frantic state of suspense and torture. 
It was strange that he did not write! Could he have 
received the letter? or what could have happened? 
When the third evening came, and still there was no 
word from him, she put Eva to bed half an hour ear- 
lier on the plea of having a bad headache, locked her 
bedroom door, slipped the key into her pocket, and 
stole softly downstairs. She would risk finding him, 
for see him she must. She made her way to the 
Albany, but Lord Hardstock was not at home. The 
little dial above his door pointed to the word “Out.” 

“I will wait,” thought Emily, and turned to go 
down the staircase. Suddenly she paused and hesi- 
tated. There was no one in sight. She knew that 
Lord Hardstock was in the habit of hiding his key 
underneath the mat. She had more than once seen 
him take it from there, and he had told her laugh- 
ingly that it was safer there than in his pocket — was 
less likely to be lost. In another moment she had it 
in her hand, swung the door open, laid the key back 
in its place beneath the mat, and walked in. It was 
then eight o’clock. Nine struck, and ten and eleven, 
and still he did not come. 

Emily began to lose courage. At length her 
quick ear caught a step, and she flew to the door, but 
fell back amazed — Lord Hardstock was not alone. 

“Come in and have a brandy and soda,” he was 
saying. “ Oh, nonsense ! come in,” 

Emily shrank back, but the lamp which she had 


lOO 


CONSTANCE. 


lit an hour ago was burning brightly, and escape 
was impossible. 

There was nothing for it but to face the position 
boldly, and get herself out of an unpleasant scrape 
as best she might. 

“You are surprised to see me,” she said coolty, 
advancing with outstretched hand, “ and you must 
wonder what has brought me here. But if you will 
come back with me my mother will explain. She 
has important news for you.” 

“Ah! I ought to have seen Aunt Lydia to-day. 
It was very careless of me not to have called. Hast- 
ings, let me introduce you to my cousin. Miss Lisle 
— Major Hastings.” 

Emily bowed graciously, thankful that Lord 
Hardstock had accepted his cue. 

“I had no idea that you would be so late,” she 
continued. “ I have been here for hours. It was a 
lovely evening, and I thought I might as well walk 
here and deliver my mother’s message as write to 
you.” 

“ It is very late,” murmured Lord Hardstock. 

His guest took the hint. “ I told you I did not 
want anything, my dear Hardstock, but you would 
have me come in.” He shook hands with Emily, 
and a minute later could be heard clattering down 
the stone staircase. 

Until his footsteps died away, not a word did 
Lord Hardstock speak. Then he turned to the un- 
fortunate girl with so much anger and hatred on his 
face that instinctively she put out her hands to ward 
him off. 

“ It is most unfortunate. I am so sorry!” she said. 

“ Upon my word, you must have parted with the 
last grain of common sense ! To come here at this 
hour of the night and force your way into my rooms ! 
I’m disgusted with your shamelessness! You don’t 
suppose that Hastings was taken in by that pretty 


CONSTANCE. 


lOI 


little story for a single instant, do you? My cousin, 
and therefore presumably a lady, would never have 
been permitted to visit a bachelor alone at this hour 
of the night. I suppose you did not think of that. 
After all, how should you know how women in my 
rank of life act?” 

“I thought I carried.it off very well. I am sure 
he swallowed it all.” 

Lord Hardstock laughed noisily. He had been 
drinking, and he had been playing ^cart^^ and losing 
heavily, and was in a vile temper. 

“I am about sick of this sort of thing!” he said, 
in a blustering tone. “ You are rapidly curing me 
of any fancy I ever had for you ; and perhaps it is 
better that there should be an end put to it, once 
and forever.” 

All color faded from Emily’s face, and she stood 
before the man she loved absolutely voiceless. Lord 
Hardstock turned away, and with great deliberation 
struck a match to light a cigar. 

“ May I ask if you intend to return to West Kens- 
ington to-night, as it is close on to twelve o’clock?” 

A sob — half sigh, half moan — parted her lips, and 
the next instant she had fallen across his feet sense- 
less. The man was not entirely a brute, and his con- 
science smote him as he lifted her gently and laid her 
on the sofa. When the bright eyes opened and 
sought his, and the warm arms drew him down to 
her, he yielded as he had yielded before, and would 
yield again. 

“ Forgive me, dear,” she whispered, and she looked 
so white and helpless that he had not the heart to 
say another word. 

“You must go home at once,” he said kindly. 
“But how are you to get in? • I suppose nobody 
knows that you have left the house. ” 

“ Put me into a cab, ” she answered. “ I will man- 
age the rest. ” Only too glad to have the matter ar- 


102 


CONSTANCE. 


ranged without his intervention, Lord Hardstock 
hastened to do her bidding. 

“Write to tell me how things turn out.” 

“ I will. Kiss me, Rupert, and call me your own 
little wife.” 

For a second he hesitated, then he took her in his 
arms and kissed her, twice, thrice — not grudgingly, 
although in his heart there was not an iota of real 
love for her. And then he drew her arm through 
his and walked out with her to the hansom. He 
gave the West Kensington address to the driver, but 
three minutes later Miss Baillie pushed open the 
little trap-door. 

“Drive me to 14 Grafton Road,” she said, “and 
stop at the surgery door round the corner. ” She had 
determined to throw herself upon Dr. Dale’s protec- 
tion. 

Late though it was, a light was burning in the 
surgery, and when she had paid and dismissed the cab, 
she turned and tapped gently on the window ; but as 
no response 'came, she knocked softly at the door. 

It opened almost instantly. 

“You — good heavens!” cried Dr. Dale. “What 
has happened?” He followed her into the little 
room, locked the door, and drew a heavy curtain over 
it with hands that trembled and shook. 

“ What on earth am I to say?” thought Emily. 
“Some sort of explanation must be given.” Bnt 
while she reflected Dr. Dale flung himself by her 
side and bowed his head upon his shaking hands. 

“ What a villain you must think me! I could not 

help it — I mean, it did not seem to be possible ” 

Then he broke off abruptly. 

At first Emily actually believed that he had gone 
mad, but by and by something of the truth dawned 
upon her, and she snatched at it gratefully — 
greedily. 

“ I did not do it with actual intent to bring you 


CONSTANCE. 


103 


into my presence,” cried the agitated man. “ I hard- 
ly believed that my influence was strong enough.” 
And then he pointed to a pile of books on hypnotism 
and mesmerism. “ Most of those writers maintain,” 
said he, “ that it is only a question of practice how 
soon one can compel a subject to abject obedience 
and a blind submission to our will. Tell me, were 
not your thoughts concentrated on me — your person- 
ality merged as it were in mine, and you no longer 
a breathing, living, separate being, but forced to 
think with my mind and see with my eyes? ” 

“Yes,” murmured Emily; “it was ^. ” 

“ I called you and you came. It is wonderful !” 

“ And now that I am here at your bidding, how 
am I to get back again?” She was thinking how 
marvellously lucky she had been, and since Dr. Dale 
believed himself responsible for her mad act of to- 
night it was he that must get her out of the scrape. 
So she lay back in her chair smiling sweetly, while 
the unlucky doctor racked his brains. 

“ You are sure you do not feel ill? ” he asked anx- 
iously. 

“ I feel languid and sleepy,” she answered, with a 
yawn. And it was little to be wondered at that she 
should. 

“ I don’t think it would be wise to trust Janet,” 
he hazarded. 

“Oh, no!” cried Emily impulsively; “certainly 
not. Let us think of some other way.” 

“ Have you any idea whether you closed the front 
door after you?” 

“ No,” answered Emily, shaking her head. “ I can 
remember nothing.” 

“Well, this will teach me a lesson I shall re- 
** member all my life. Never again will I meddle 
with a science about which I really know nothing.” 
The despair of the doptor’s tone was so very com- 
ical that the girl could not help laughing. “You 


104 


CONSTANCE. 


have a headache, I think you said. Would it be 
strange if you had come to me for advice, and been 
taken ill here?” 

“ I am afraid it would seem rather odd.” 

“What is to be done? Js there no one in the 
household you could trust?” 

At that moment the surgery bell was rung loudly, 
and Emily sprang to her feet in disniay. 

“ Sit still. There is nothing to be afraid of.” Dr. 
Dale went to the door and returned with an air of 
satisfaction. 

“ Nothing could have happened more providen- 
tially,” he cried. “ Mrs. Armitage has sent over for 
some laudanum. She has had the earache vSo badly 
that she has not been to bed at all, and is suffering 
a great deal of pain. I will give a bottle to Dyne, 
tell her if she will hurry back with it I will follow. 
Then I will take care that the door is left open.” 

So Miss Baillie gained her room in perfect safety, 
and not a soul suspected she had been absent. For 
once Dyne had served her a good turn. That un- 
compromising individual was to be left in charge of 
the house during Mrs. Armitage’s absence, and had 
arrived at West Kensington that same afternoon. 
Constance had had premonitory symptoms of her 
old enemy, and as the pain grew worse she went up- 
stairs to Dyne and begged her to go to the nearest 
chemist’s and endeavor to procure a little lauda- 
num. But Dyne had had some experience of rous- 
ing up the inmates of a household from their first 
sleep, and had no intention of wasting her time in 
any such proceeding; so she just walked round the 
corner of the street into Grafton Road, and seeing a 
light in the surgery, promptly rang the doctor’s bell; 
with what happy result we know. Constance was 
vexed that Dyne should have fetched the doctor for 
so trifling an ailment, but he lassured her that he was 
only too happy to be of service to her. 


CONSTANCE. 


105 

“Thank heaven for small mercies!” cried Dr. 
Dale, when at length he found himself back in his 
surgery. “ What in the world we should have done 
but for this lucky accident I hardly dare to think. 
Poor girl, how frightened she was. It has been a 
curious experience. She must be an extremely sen- 
sitive subject, I should imagine, otherwise hypnoti- 
zation would have been impossible, I feel assured. 
But interesting as the theory of mesmerism un- 
doubtedly is, I should be positively afraid to dabble 
further in it after to-night’s uncanny work.” 

Safe between the sheets. Miss Baillie laughed^ 
softly. “The devil’s own luck,” she said, “Nothing 
but a little assistance from his Satanic Majesty would 
ever have got me out of an ugly mess to-night.” 
And when she thought of Dr. Dale, she said : 
“What fools most men are! 1 could twist that man 
round my finger, and would not hesitate to do so if I 
thought it advisable. ” 


CHAPTER XVIL 


It was an exceptionally hot June, and the fresh 
sea breezes were very enjoyable; but never in her 
life had Emily Baillie felt her position so irksome. 
She could not forget that she was only the governess, 
and however kind and gracious Mrs. Armitage might 
be, there was a considerable amount of bitter mixed 
with the sweets. There were a good many guests 
in the hotel where they were staying, but Constance 
held aloof from chance acquaintances, and made no 
new friends. 

“I wonder she doesn’t find it dull,” grumbled 
Miss Baillie. “ Nothing but that perpetual Spa and 
the little strip of embroidery she busies herself with 
the whole time the band plays.” And she yawned 
and flung her arms above her head. 

It was nearly six o’clock, and Eva had gone out 
shopping with her mother. Emily, having first 
locked her door, had been solacing herself with a 
French novel. 

“I am getting tired of respectability. It doesn’t 
suit me.” A little frown passed across her brow. 
“ What on earth is the good of being a lovely woman 
if you are never to have the chance of being told so? 
When I am married to Rupert I will have my revenge. 
I wonder if that day is ever coming. Why does he 
not write? He is not treating me fairly. I con- 
sented to live for a year in a lady’s family that I 
might perfect myself in the ways and manners of 
people in his rank of life before becoming his wife ; 
but for what I see of fashion or society I might as 
well have gone into a convent. Not that I am in the 
io6 


CONSTANCE. 


107 


least afraid I shall disgrace my position. I am con- 
fident that I can hold my own with any one; and I 
am a very great deal cleverer and smarter than ever 
Mrs. Armitagewas: I could teach her a lesson or 
two.” 

A vigorous kick on the panel of the door here put 
a summary stop to the young lady’s reflections.. It 
was Eva — radiant, laughing, her hands full of parcels. 

“ O Miss Baillie, Aunt Becky has come, and brought 
mamma’s nice gentleman with her.” Emily’s heart 
gave a sudden leap ; it had become very unruly of 
iate. 

“ What can you mean, Eva?” she asked sharply. 
“What gentleman?” 

“ His lordship, ’’answered Eva, courtesying gravely, 
and mimicking to a nicety old Dyne’s voice and man- 
ner when speaking of Lord Hardstock, who for some 
unfathomable reason was a prime favorite with her. 

Emily turned aside to hide her agitation. He was 
here! She would see him in less than an hour. Hur- 
riedly she drew out Eva’s dinner dress and proceeded 
to brush her soft curls. Then she threw open her 
box, and commenced to array herself in her most 
modish gown — one that had not seen daylight dur- 
ing the time that she had been in West Kensington. 
It was far too pretty, and there was nothing to 
dress for there. But to-night she must look her 
loveliest and bCvSt. With fingers that trembled with 
eagerness she drew the silken lace in and out of the 
bodice. 

“ Won’t you get cold?” asked Eva, whose bright 
eyes were fixed inquisitively upon her. As she got 
no answer, she added innocently: “What a pity 
that there wasn’t enough stuff to finish it.” And 
she pointed to where, cut square at back and front, 
it liberally displayed Miss Baillie’s fine shoulders. 

Mrs. Armitage remarked with some surprise and 
a good deal of annoyance the change in her govern- 


CONSTANCE. 


io8 

ess’s appearance. It was in very questionable taste, 
she thought, to wear a low dress at a public table 
d'hote. But she said nothing, and both Mrs. Strang- 
ways and Lord Hardstock shook hands as they took 
their places. 

“This is a surprise!” cried Miss Baillie, who 
would have preferred that it should have appeared 
that she was in ignorance of Lord Hardstock ’s ar- 
rival. But the enfant terrible called out at the top of 
her shrill little voice : 

“ I told you all about it. Don’t you remember. 
Miss Baillie?” 

Emily changed color, and Lord - Hardstock 
laughed, and somehow his laugh nettled Miss Bail- 
lie. Her food seemed to choke her; she could 
scarcely swallow. She sat between Mrs. Strang- 
ways and Eva, and exactly facing her were Lord 
Hardstock and Mrs. Armitage. The dinner seemed 
as if it would never come to an end, and thankfully 
at last she rose from her seat. Eva, who had run 
on ahead, looked saucily back at her governess, and 
at the same moment the heavy doors which she had 
pushed backward swung to upon her. A shriek, a 
scream, and Constance had caught Eva in her arms. 
The child was frightened and very pale, but there 
was no harm done. 

“ You should not have allowed her to leave your 
side,” said Mrs. Armitage. In her agitation, she 
was scarcely conscious how aggressive her tone was, 
and how much displeasure it conveyed. There 
were several guests standing near, and Miss Baillie 
tossed her head and walked deliberately up the long 
staircase without vouchsafing a single word in reply. 
She was trembling with anger, and furious at Mrs. 
Armitage for having dared to address her in such a 
tone. 

Shortly afterward, Eva appeared, holding fast to 
her mother’s hand. “ I think she had better go to 


CONSTANCE. 


109 

bed,” said Constance. “Poor mite, it has shaken 
her. I don’t think it would be wise to take her on 
the Spa to-night.” _ 

Emily could have wept. Was there ever such an 
unlucky series of disasters? To be kept at home 
all the evening because of this rebellious, tiresome 
child! 

“ Miss Baillie will nurse me and tell me a new 
story,” said Eva confidently. 

But Miss Baillie did nothing of the sort. She 
stood silent and unresponsive while Mrs. Armitage 
gave her orders, and undressed and popped Eva into 
her bed in a twinkling, much to that young lady’s 
astonishment and chagrin. 

“ I wish I’d gone out with mamma and auntie,” 
she remarked plaintively. 

“ And so you could have done if you had not been 
disobedient,” snapped her governess. “You have 
been told over and over again not to run about in 
that heedless fashion, and now you are punished for 
it.” 

“ I don’t think you are very kind,” said Eva with 
a pout, and her eyes filled with tears. Then Miss 
Baillie took the candle away, and the poor little 
girl cried herself to sleep. But Emily, was in no 
happier frame of mind herself. It is doubtful 
what amount of pleasure she would have gleaned from 
accompanying Mrs. Armitage and her sister to the 
Spa. Lord Hardstock could scarcely have left them 
unattended to walk by her side, and she felt as 
if she had been defrauded of her rights, and she 
worked himself up into a state of wrath thereat. 
About a quarter past nine the little party returned, 
and Constance ran upstairs to ask after her darling. 

“ She does not seem any the worse, does she?” she 
inquired anxiously. “ She had a nasty blow on the 
temple.” 

“ She has been asleep for more than an hour and 


no 


CONSTANCE. 


a half, ” replied Miss Baillie ungraciously. “Many 
children get those sort of knocks every day in the 
week. " 

“ I am very glad that mine does not.” 

Constance saw that her governess was ruffled, and 
so overlooked the insolence of her manner. 

“ Since I am not likely to be required, have I your 
permission to go out for a short time myself?” 

“Most certainly,” said Mrs. Armitage. And as 
she left the room she could not help wondering if 
she had inadvertently given cause of offence. 

“ I do not think I like Miss Baillie as well as I 
did,” she confided to her sister as they sat side by 
side at an open window in the drawing-room. 

“ I should certainly give her a hint to dress differ- 
ently,” said Rebecca. “I really never saw such an 
exhibition. It was positively indecent! I cannot 
imagine what Lord Hardstock must have thought 
of it. ” 

“ I am afraid that is a matter of supreme indiffer- 
ence to me; but since we are on that subject, let me 
ask you what could have induced you to bring him 
down here, Rebecca?” 

“ I bring him down here, my dear! I bring him ! 
Why, it was he who brought me. I told him I 
thought of spending a week with you here, and he 
said how odd it was, for that Captain Berkeley was' 
at the Grand, and he rather thought of running down 
himself. What could I say? I could scarcely find 
out by what train he was coming, and arrange to 
follow by the next myself.” 

“ No, I suppose not. It is curious how that man 
always manages to get his own way.” 

“Still that unreasoning prejudice, Constance! I 
thought it had crumbled away months ago.” 

“I. don't think I am a woman easily prejudiced, 
but I have my likes and dislikes, like every one else. 

I say that I think it is a pity that Lord Hardstock 


CONSTANCE. 


Ill 


should have followed me here, and to have done so n 
shows want of tact and bad taste on his part.” 

“ I suppose he is only human. After all, why will 
you shut your eyes, Constance? And why do you 
try to steel your heart against him? You are bound 
to give in sooner or later. ” 

“ Never — never! ” cried Constance angrily. “ Un- 
derstand me once and for all, Rebecca. Lord Hard- 
stock is less than nothing to me. I do not like him 
— I can barely tolerate him.” 

“ Why in the world does she try to throw dust in 
my eyes?” reflected Mrs. Strangways, who might be 
forgiven for adhering to her own opinions, strength- 
ened as they were by the very roseate shade Lord 
Hardstock contrived to throw over his relations 
with Mrs. Armitage. It was the merest hint, 
hardly more than an inflection of the voice, but it 
certainly conveyed to Mrs. Strangway ’s mind that 
there was far more between her sister and Lord 
Hardstock than Constance would admit. 

“It is a shame,” she said to herself. “For he 
would suit her so well, and he is so dreadfully in 
love, poor fellow.” 

The “ poor fellow” was a mile away, standing at 
the further end of the esplanade, a cigar between 
his lips and an ugly scowl on his face; and by his 
side stood Emily Baillie. She had passed him in 
the hall as she went out, and had whispered in his 
ear: 

“ I must speak to you ; follow me at once.” 

And a pretty tramp she had given him up those 
steep inclines; -but Emily was in no mood for 
trifling. She had come out here to have her say, 
and would brook neither listeners nor observers. 

“What have you to say to me?” she asked sud- 
denly, as she wheeled round and faced him. 

“ Perhaps you will allow me to get my breath 
before you expect me to talk,” answered Lord Hard- 


1 12 


CONSTANCE. 


stock, looking very warm and uncomfortable, and 
decidedly cross. 

Had Emily been wise, she would have slipped her 
hand within his arm and waited a better opportunity 
for indulging in reproaches; but she was so brimful 
of her own grievances that she lost sight of the dis- 
cretion that is a better part of valor. 

“What am I to think of you?” she cried with 
flashing eyes. “Are you acting fairly by me? Do 
you treat me as a man should treat the woman he 
means to make his wife? I am utterly sick of it. 
My love for you has kept me patient until now, but 
I have come to the end of my tether. I will not re- 
main with Mrs. Armitage another day. You must 
keep your promise and marry me at once.” 

A mocking laugh broke from Lord Hardstock’s 
lips. “ What an actress you would make! By Jove, 
you are superb 1 You would bring the house down, 
Emily. But, strange as it may appear, I have no 
taste for amateur theatricals, so we will come down 
to the level of this work-a-day world. Let me see. 
You accuse me first of neglecting you, and then — by 
the way, I think you forgot to state precisely what 
is my second offence ; and lastly you demand — yes, 
actually demand — that I should marry you out of 
hand. It cannot be done, my excellent Emily.” 

Miss Baillie felt the ground slipping from beneath 
her feet. The cool sarcasm and utter indifference 
displayed by the man whom, with all her faults, she 
deeply loved, blunted the weapons in her hand, and 
stayed the sharp recrimination on her lips. 

“If ever you should again treat. me to such an 
exhibition as this, I will never marry you. Do 
you understand me? Never — by God I swear it!” 

He hissed the words into her ears, grasping her 
hands firmly in his own. 

^ “ Do you understand me? I will tell Mrs. Armi- 
tage the truth — what you are, and what you have 


CONSTANCE. 


always been. I will declare that I was in ignorance 
of your real character until months after you entered 
her service, and that, moved by compassion and pity, 

I yielded to your prayers and remained silent. 
Now then ; what would you have to say for yourself, 
my dear child?” 

“ I should say that you were a fiend — that there 
was no man on all God’s earth so vile and base as 
you !” 

“ I am much obliged to you,” said Lord Hardstock, 
raising his hat politely. “You defy me?” he contin- 
ued — “bid me do my worst?” 

Emily did not answer him. Her lips were livid, 
her face was ashen pale, and .she leaned against the 
iron railings gasping for breath. 

“ Emily, don’t be a fool. Pull yourself together.” 
He spoke roughly, but he was terribly frightened; 
there was a look of death on the stricken face. 

A moment later she was sobbing wildly, the crisis 
had passed. He held her not ungently in his arms. 
It was growing dark. There was not a soul in sight. 
He could feel the quick beating of her heart as it 
hammered against his own. A tinge of pity woke 
within him. 

“We have each of us said things that we must 
regret,” he said, “and it will be wiser that we 
should both forget.” 

Her lips moved, but no words came. 

“ I will try and see you of ten er; but it will be diffi- 
cult. You must not be impatient. Everything will 
come right if you will but wait. ” He drew her arm 
within his own, and they walked slowly back toward 
the hotel. As they neared the bridge he paused. 

“ It will not look well if we are seen returning 
together. I will follow you. ” 

A scornful smile flitted over her face, but she made 
him no answer. 

“Good-night, my ” 

8 


CONSTANCE. 


II4 

“ Hush ! you have lost all claim to my regard, and 
have no right henceforth to address me but as a 
stranger. ” 

“ Then you mean ” 

“ I think we have both of us made our meanings 
so plain that there can be no possible mistake,” she 
said coldly, 

“Well, if you will have it so.” 

He dropped her hand, and she continued her way 
alone. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


It has been truly said that no cord or cable could 
draw so forcibly or bind so fast as love can do with 
only a single thread. When pride died out, the 
old devotion rushed back in a blinding flood upon 
Emily’s aching heart. How mad she had been — 
how reckless — to cast in her lover’s face the affection 
that had already cost her so dear! She felt that 
whatever chanced she must cling to him still, for 
life without him would be but a pitiful thing. 
Without Lord Hardstock, all the warmth and sun- 
shine would fade out of it. For her love’s sake she 
must humble herself and ask for forgiveness. 

The sad white face was pleading for itself. Every 
time he looked at her he longed to draw her to his 
bosom and kiss the drooping lips. Although he had 
not the remotest intention of making her his wife, 
he did not want to lose her altogether. She appealed 
to him — at any rate, to his baser nature. Some 
people get a good deal of satisfaction out of a love 
that has a spice of deviltry, and Emily could be 
very seductive and very fascinating when she chose. 

So, when a little incoherent note, all blurred and 
blotted with tears, was thrust beneath his door one 
night, although he smiled in a superior manner as 
he contemplated it, he was well pleased that war 
should be at an end between them. And both Emily 
and Lord Hardstock felt considerably happier and 
more contented after the quarrel than they had been 
before it. The storm had cleared the air. 

Feeling how slight was her hold upon him. Miss 
Baillie put forth all her woman’s weapons, and was 


CONSTANCE 


1 16 

wonderfully softened and tender. And he, well 
pleased, inasmuch as he had proved himself master, 
could afford to be conciliatory and indulgent. 

“ Of course she could leave Mrs. Armitage if she 
chose to do so,” he said, “but she would hardly find 
so pleasant a home combined with such light duties 
elsewhere ; and for the short space of time that must 
elapse before she had a home of her own, it seemed 
a pity to make a change.” Miss Baillie entirely 
agreed with him; and so everything settled down 
again. 

Mrs. Armitage was puzzled — puzzled, and a little 
troubled. She had written two letters to Basil St. 
Quentin, but to neither of them had she received 
any reply. This was strange, because she had heard 
from Daphne, who constantly made mention of him 
in her letters, that he was in Paris and in perfect 
health. It was impossible that she could write 
again. It gave her a little pang to think that she 
was forgotten, and she found herself brooding over 
it, and vainly trying to account for it. 

That tier bewitching little sister-in-law was at the 
bottom of the whole mystery she never suspected. 
Daphne’s epistles, which were characteristic of her- 
self, were like angels’ visits, few and far between. 
She was not a good correspondent, and she hated 
a pen-and-ink medium, because it did not allow her 
to make use of the little mannerisms which her con- 
versation was so full of. Daphne’s writing looked a 
good deal as if a spider had dropped into an ink bot- 
tle and crawled over a sheet of paper. 

One of these productions came to hand when they 
had been at Scarborough about a month, and Mrs. 
Armitage had begun to talk of home. Ttiere was a 
vein of discontent running throughout it which 
startled Constance. 

“ Gerald is a perfect tyrant,” wrote the little lady. 


CONSTANCE. 


117 

“ and grudges me any sort of amusement. I begin 
to think that single women are a good deal better 
off than we married ones.” 

Of course it was a jest, but reading between the 
lines Constance could see that her sister-in-law was 
vexed and troubled, and knowing how shallow her 
nature was, she feared the result. Constance sat 
there with the letter in her hand, and then she came 
to a sudden resolution. She would invite Daphne to 
spend a few weeks with her in town. It would be 
a splendid excuse for returning. Lord Hardstock was 
still at Scarborough, and did not show the slightest 
intention of leaving, and the place had lost all charm 
for her. The little fable about Captain Berkeley 
had never imposed upon her for an instant. He was 
not and had never been at the Grand, and the sole 
reason that had brought Lord Hardstock to Scarbor- 
ough was the fact that she was staying there. To 
make matters worse, this man was actually under 
the same roof with herself. He had made a feint at 
first of taking a room at another hotel, but gave it 
up at the end of a couple of days. It was noisy, he 
said, and there was not a nice class of people staying 
there. He liked her hotel so much better. And 
then Mrs. Strangways had proposed that he should 
remove there. 

“You might have spared me this,” she said. “I 
have a great mind to go back to town to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Strangways appeared surprised. She could 
see no valid reason why Lord Hardstock should not 
join their party. 

But from that day all pleasure was gone for Con- 
stance. Lord Hardstock seemed ubiquitous — she 
could not escape from his presence. Whatever she 
did, or wherever she went, he invariably appeared 
on the scene. Now she had a reasonable excuse for 
bringing her visit to an end. The next morning 
she broached her plans. 


CONSTANCE. 


Il8 

“ I had a letter from my sister-in-law yesterday,” 
she said quietly, “ and I find that she wishes to pay 
me a visit at once, instead of waiting until August ; 
so I shall go home on Tuesday.” 

The band was playing the “Tour de Valse,” and 
Constance hummed a few bars carelessly; but she 
did not glance at either of her companions. 

“What a pity you are going so soon,” said Mrs. 
Strangways. “ The sea air is doing the child so 
much good.” 

“ She shall have another holiday when Arthur 
comes home. I cannot disappoint Daphne.” 

The valse suddenly ceased, and they commenced 
to toil up the path toward home. 

Constance purposely avoided giving Lord Hard- 
stock chance for a tete-a-tete^ and condemned herself 
to a lonely afternoon in her own room. What little 
headway Lord Hardstock had made in her good 
graces he had entirely lost since she had seen so 
much of him, and she disliked him more cordially 
than she had ever done. He, for his part, was not 
altogether broken-hearted at having an hour or two 
to dispose of. For the last few days he had seen 
nothing of Miss Baillie. Whether it was by acci- 
dent or design, he could not determine, but she had 
certainly contrived to keep out of his wa)^ and he 
began to feel a little piqued. Mrs. Armitage was 
perfection — an angel — but he found it somewhat 
wearisome at times to reach up to her level. “ A 
saint is all very well for a wife,” he told himself, 
“ but give me a sinner for a companion.” And with 
this reflection he started in quest of Emily Baillie. 

She was sitting in a cosy little summer-house, half 
way between the bridge and the Spa. Her hat was 
on the ground at her feet, and a book lay open in 
her lap. Eva was nowhere in sight. Lord Hard- 
stock stole softly round to the back and whispered in 
the small pink ear. The girl sprang to her feet. 


CONSTANCE. 


II9 

“ How you startled me! I never heard a sound,” 
she cried. 

“ What are you reading?” 

She hid the book among the folds of her dress. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, ” said Lord Hardstock, pos- 
sessing himself of it by main force ; “ as if I should 
imagine it was Watt’s hymns or the ‘Pilgrim’s Pro- 
gress,’ or anything else in the goody-goody line.” 

“ Pray be cautious. Eva is running up and down, 
and she will be back in a minute. ” Nevertheless, 
she allowed herself to be drawn closer to his side, 
and gave herself up to the pleasure of contact with 
him. 

“ So you are off to town on Tuesday?” 

“ I did not know, but I am glad of it.” 

“ Well, so am I, for some reasons. First and fore- 
most, because we can renew the good old times, 
Emily.” 

She glanced up at him with grateful eyes, wholly 
unable to conceal the pleasure his^words gave her. 
Then they fell to discussing ways and means. 

“You will have many chances to get away when 
Mrs. Gerald is there.” 

“ I doubt it. I am more likely to be tied hand and 
foot, Rupert, ” she cried impulsively. “ Do you like 
children? I don’t and can’t. I dare say it is unnat- 
ural and wicked, but I hate them.” 

He laughed. “I think I am rather fond of Eva,” 
he answered lazily. “ She is such a frank little lady. ” 

“I’d like to whip the frankness out of her. A 
spoilt brat — that is nearer the mark. Mrs. Armitage 
makes herself ridiculous about her.” 

“ And yet she is not a demonstrative woman.” 

“ No, you could scarcely call her that. She posi- 
tively freezes me. You have known her a long time ; 
was she always like that?” 

“ She was always dignified and haughty, but some- 
how I think she has changed of late.” 


I 20 


CONSTANCE. 


“ It is easy to see that she does not like you, Ru- 
pert,” she said, in sublime unconsciousness of the 
torture she was inflicting, “ and of course that makes 
her manner mofe repellant. I suppose she has 
a heart, and could be made to soften it to some- 
thing like warmth and life under the right in- 
fluence.” 

“ I really don’t know why you should assume that 
I am not a favorite with her. ” 

The girl lifted her face to look in his. The re- 
sentment -in his tone had been somewhat of a sur- 
prise to her. It had never occurred to her that Lord 
Hardstock could care two pins for Mrs. Armi- 
tage. 

“ Perhaps you are a favorite. How should I 
know?” she replied lightly. “Anyhow, she takes 
a curious way of showing it.” 

How it maddened Lord Hardstock to know that 
what she said was true. • Men love women in so 
many different ways. With some, it is the wild, 
despairing desire for the unattainable ; with others 
a fierce greed for possession ; few — so few that they 
are hardly worth recording — know anything of a 
love that is pure and unselfish, giving all and asking 
for nothing. 

“Miss Baillie,” cried a small, unwelcome voice at 
the entrance. “Oh! you have come — how nice,” 
and Eva ran in and perched herself upon Lord 
Hardstock ’s lap. It must be confessed that at that 
moment Lord Hardstock indorsed Miss Baillie’s 
opinion of children in general and of Eva in par- 
ticular. His face was not particularly amiable as 
he glanced down at the small torment. 

“We are busy talking,” he said coaxingly. “ Sup- 
pose you go up to the flagstaff seat, and look down 
and see if you can distinguish us from there.” 

“ I know I can’t. It is too far off,” answered Eva, 
determined not to be humbugged. 


CONSTANCE'. 


I2I 

Emily laughed. She was glad that Lord Hard- 
stock was baffled, even though it involved a certain 
amount of annoyance to herself. 

“ I wonder if you could go to the Chalybeate 
Spring and buy me a Standard 2 

“They don’t sell papers there— only buckets and 
spades.” 

“Oh, very well, buy yourself the biggest bucket 
you can find, and mind you take sufficient time to 
choose a nice one.” 

This was a temptation before which Eva suc- 
cumbed, and her fat white legs were soon racing 
over the ground. 

“Don’t be in a hurry, Eva,” shouted Lord Hard- 
stock, as he put his hands to his mouth in trumpet 
fashion. Then he turned to Emily, who was smiling 
and blushing, well pleased to mark his eagerness. It 
was certainly the happiest afternoon that Miss Baillie 
had spent for many weeks. She almost persuaded 
herself that the man she loved loved her in equal 
measure. 

“ Good-by, my little devil !” he whispered, as 
Eva hove in' sight with a pail as big as her small 
self. 

“ When I am your wife I shall not let you call me 
such names, ” said Emily. But Lord Hardstock made 
no answer. 

Later on, Eva, in great glee, displayed her prize 
to her mother. “See,” said she, “what Lord Hard- 
stock gave me for running away while he talked to 
Miss Baillie.” 

“ O Eva, that is a very strange way of putting 
it.” Miss Baillie began to grow rather uncomfort- 
able. Mrs. Strangway’s keen eyes were bent upon 
her, and from that moment Rebecca distrusted her.. 
She attached far greater importance to Eva’s words 
than did her sister. . 

“ My dear Rebecca, why should he not enjoy a 


122 


CONSTANCE. 


chat with Miss Baillie?” said Constance. “ He has 
known her intimately for years. There is nothing 
remarkable in it, so far as I can see.” 

And Mrs. Strangways began to reflect that Con- 
stance was the most perplexing and contradictory 
person she had ever met. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Daphne Armitage was out of her element in the 
West Kensington manage. Her pretty blandishments 
were disregarded, and her brilliant repartees fell 
somewhat flat. She felt that she was not appreciated, 
and this she resented. Constance was as sweet and 
charming as it was possible for a hostess to be ; but 
there were none of the nobler sex to captivate, and 
Daphne secretly pined for new worlds to conquer. 
Lord Hardstock, it is true, joined the little circle 
occasionally, but, as she looked upon him as her 
sister-in-law’s exclusive property, he hardly counted. 

Dr. Dale she considered a handsome and most 
agreeable man, but the very first evening he spent 
in her society he had the execrable taste to allow her 
to perceive his admiration for the governess, and 
after that — well. Daphne shrugged her plump shoul- 
ders, and made a little move of contempt. She cor- 
dially detested Miss Baillie. She could see nothing 
in her to admire, and she openly expressed her 
opinion that she was a mass of artificiality from the 
tip of her head to the sole of her foot. “ I call her a 
nasty, scheming adventuress,” she said one day. 

Constance looked grieved. She had long ago given 
up being shocked at anything Daphne might say or 
do, for the little lady openly disregarded all con- 
ventionalities, and acted precisely as the whim of 
the moment suggested. She was like a brilliantly 
painted butterfly that had settled on a cabbage-field, 
and pined for a more congenial resting-place. But 
she had not the remotest intention of returning to 
Paris to her husband. The way in which she spoke 
123 


124 


CONSTANCE. 


of him grated upon Constance terribly. He had 
brought her to England himself, and had stayed a 
couple of days; but, short though the visit was, Mrs. 
Armitage could see that the relations between them 
were sadly strained. 

“Really, I think she is prettier than ever,” Con- 
stance said warmly to her brother-in-law, honestly 
glad that there was something she could speak of 
approvingly. 

“ God grant that her beauty may not be her greatest 
curse!” he answered. And there were tears in his 
voice. 

Constance glanced at him quickly. “ She is very 
young,” she said; “you must be patient.” 

“Of course she is young; but she doesn’t grow 
wiser. I used to hope at first that she would, but 
of late I can hardly bring myself to speak of it even 
to you. A horrid suspicion has come over me that 
her love is not so deep as it was, and that she is 
growing weary of me. ” 

“If you are right,” said Constance earnestly, 
“ depend upon it, it rests only with yourself to 
strengthen her love. We women are very much as 
you men make us. Remember that love begets love, 
and there is nothing too great for it to accomplish 
if it be pure and true. ” 

Gerald Armitage sprang from his chair and paced 
up and down the room. “Ah!” he said, “if there 
were more women like you, there would be happier 
homes and fewer discontented men.” 

“I am terribly full of faults,” she said hurriedly. 
“ I fear that I am not at all an easy person to live 
with. ” 

“ I am sure that poor Cyril would not have indorsed 
that statement. I don’t suppose that you two ever 
exchanged a harsh or bitter word.” He paused in 
front of her, and marvelled to see the distressed look 
which crept over her whole face. The tears glittered 


CONSTANCE. 


125 


in her eyes, and seeing them he turned away, angry 
with himself that he should have reminded her of 
her lost happiness — in blissful ignorance of the truth. 

“ If you will make my darling little wife as good 
and true as you are, Constance, I shall be the happiest 
man in the world.” 

But it was beyond Constance’s power to sway and 
control that wayward mind. Precept and example 
might do something, but they could not work mira- 
cles ; and weeds throve apace where the flowers should 
have blossomed. As is usual in such cases, there 
were faults on both sides. If Daphne was wilful and 
vain, Gerald was obstinate and unyielding. 

“ He is so selfish, ” said Daphne with a pout. “ How 
can he possibly expect me to be interested in his 
stupid fogey friends, most of them a century old. 
And he objects to my being intimate with any one 
nearer my own age.” 

“ That is hardly fair. But have you no women 
friends, Daphne?” 

“Oh! yes; I don’t mean women, but ” 

Constance could not help smiling. “ My dear,” she 
said gravely; “no husband, be he old or young, 
would approve of his wife forming near friendships 
with other men. ” 

“ Oh, you are as bad as he is. ” 

“ I have lived longer than you, at all events, and 
am more experienced. I can see shoals and quick- 
sands ahead of which you guess nothing. ” 

“Now there was Mr. St. Quentin,” continued 
Daphne (and at the mention of that name Constance’s 
heart beat a shade faster), “ he was awfully nice ; but 
Gerald found out that I had been to the Bois with 
him, and if I had broken everyone of the command- 
ments I pledge you my word that he could not have 
made more fuss. I should only like you to have heard 
him. I was giddy, he said, and had no thought for my 
own position or for his honor. Ridiculous rubbish !’* 


126 


CONSTANCE. 


“ I don’t think you ought to have gone about alone 
with Mr. St. Quentin, Daphne. A young married 
woman cannot be too careful of appearances.” 

“ It is all very well to preach,” answered Daphne, 
tossing her head scornfully. “ But, now I come to 
think of it, you did not think it wicked to spend a 
whole afternoon alone with him when I was at 
Neuilly, although you are engaged to another man.” 

“ Daphne, what are you saying?” 

This was turning the tables with a vengeance. 
Never until now had' Constance suspected that her 
sister-in-law knew of that stolen tete-a-tete; but the 
accusation contained in the latter part of her speech 
swallowed up any uneasiness she might have felt. 
“ I must ask you to explain your meaning,” continued 
Constance, feeling herself growing very hard and 
cold. 

“ Well, if you are not engaged to Lord Hardstock, 
you are a thousand times worse than I have ever 
been.” 

Daphne tried to rush from the room after this 
shot, but Constance restrained her. 

“ Again I ask you, please explain yourself. ” 

Mortified, tingling with the unpleasant conviction 
that, having asserted herself, she must now stick to 
her colors, she blurted out the whole story. 

“You were never more mistaken in your life,” said 
Constance. “ Lord Hardstock is not, and never has 
been — and never will be — my lover. Have you 
spoken of this to Gerald?” 

“I don’t know — I think not; I don’t remember.” 

Her hesitating manner confirmed Mrs. Armitage’s 
fear that she had done so. 

“You must give me your word,” she said, “that 
you will put this matter straight. I don’t choose that 
my brother-in-law should labor under any misap- 
prehension with regard to my affairs. You will 
dis-abuse his mind. Daphne. It is a matter of 


CONSTANCE. 


127 


far greater importance to me than probably you 
realize. ” 

She was thinking of Basil St. Quentin, and what 
she should do if any such absurd rumor should 
reach his*ears. Andyet why should she care? Surely, 
he knew her too well to credit it. But from that day 
she was ill at ease. Daphne had spoken confidently, 
and appeared certain of what she was saying. It did 
seem as if Lord Hardstock was to spring up on every 
side to vex and worry her. 

Once or twice she was within an ace of asking her 
sister-in-law point-blank if the subject had been 
broached before Mr. St. Quentin, but she kept silence 
for two reasons; first, because of an inexplicable 
sensation of shyness and diffidence that prevented 
her from mentioning his name and appearing to dis- 
play any interest in him ; and secondly, because she 
feared that Daphne’s veracity was not to be relied 
upon. ' 

“ Whether she has spoken to Mr. St. Quentin or 
not, she is absolutely certain to deny having done 
so. She never by any chance ‘tells of herself’ as 
the children say. ” 

If it had not been for Mrs. Strangways, Daphne 
would have been terribly bored in London ; but that 
lady took compassion on her, and chaperoned her 
to one or two festivities. Since the death of her 
husband, Constance had given up every sort of amuse- 
ment. Lord Hardstock tried in vain to persuade her 
to go to the theatre on one occasion. 

“ I really don’t care to go,” she said. “The heat 
and glare are insufferable at this time of the 
year.” 

“You may take me. Lord Hardstock,” put in 
Daphne wickedly. “Would it be too dreadful, Con- 
stance, if Lord Hardstock bored himself to that 
extent?” 

Mrs. Armitage’s face assumed a doubtful look. 


CONSTANCE. 


r 28 

Truth to tell, she was afraid to trust her reckless 
little sister-in-law out of her sight. 

“ I will get a box, and Miss Baillie shall come with 
us. It will be a treat for her, poor girl,” said Lord 
Hardstock quickly. • 

Why do you call her ‘poor girl?’ ” asked Daphne. 
“‘ That sort of person scarcely expects dissipation, 
does she?” 

“ I don’t think you quite understand Miss Baillie’s 
position here,” remarked Constance gently. “She 
gives her services in exchange for a home with me. 
I pay her nothing. ” 

“Oh, I see,” said Daphne, stifling a yawn behind 
her fan; “she is a sort of non-salaried dependant.” 
And as she spoke the words the door opened to 
admit Eva and her governess. 

Whatever else she was. Miss Baillie was undoubt- 
edly a magnificent actress. Although every one of 
the slighting words, spoke in Daphne’s most insolent 
manner, had fallen distinctly upon her ears, she did 
not give the faintest evidence that she understood 
their import, but with a smile on her face crossed 
the floor to where Mrs. Armitage sat. 

“ Eva and I are going out for half an hour. Can 
I do anything for you?” 

Constance answered in the negative. When they 
were gone, and Eva’s merry voice could be heard 
prattling in the hall, Daphne broke into an amused 
laugh. 

“What a joke!” she said, and curled herself up 
on the sofa, well pleased that she had inflicted a 
sting on the girl she disliked. 

“ My dear Daphne, do you forget the golden rule?” 

“ Is it a riddle? Oh yes, I know. Why are two 
girls kissing each other fulfilling the golden rule? 
Because they are doing to each other as they would 
that men should do unto them.” 

“ You are perfectly incorrigible. ” 


CONSTANCE. 


129 


“ Why are yon different to all the rest of us? ” asked 
Daphne by and by, when Lord Hardstock, finding 
that .he was not going to be invited to dinner, had 
taken his hat and made his adieux. 

“Ami?” 

“Yes. Your very name has a frigid sound about 
it. You never could have been ‘Con’ or ‘Conny’ — 
only Constance.” 

“ Do you find me, then, so unlovable?” 

“ Not that — not that in the least — but a little wee 
bit unapproachable. I never know what your real 
thoughts and feelings are. You keep them all 
bottled up, and you always talk in such a proper way 
that you make me feel like a naught)^ child. I love 
you, and yet I am more than half afraid of you. It 
must be dreadful to have a character to keep up. 
Don’t you long to do something desperate some- 
times?” 

“No, most certainly I don’t. Neither will you 
when you grow older. You are such a baby. Daphne. 
Time will cure you of your follies.” 

“Will it? I think I would rather remain as I am. 
Do you think me pretty, Constance?” 

She looked more than pretty at that moment, with 
the wild-rose color in her face coming and going, 
and the big eyes luminous and glowing like stars. 

“Yes, you are very pretty,” answered Constance. 
But she sighed as she spoke, for she recalled her 
brother-in-law’s words, and trembled for what the 
future might hold for the impulsive girl-wife. 

9 


CHAPTER XX. 


Miss Baillie did not altogether enjoy her evening 
at the theatre, although she sat by Lord Hardstock’s 
side. There was a good deal of bitter mixed with 
the sweet, and Daphne’s mocking words still rankled 
within her. Moreover, that young lady seemed bent 
on monopolizing every iota of attention, and to be 
jealous of any stray word that might be addressed to 
any one but herself. She was bent on mischief. 
Having arrived at the astonishing fact that Lord 
Hardstock was not engaged to Constance, she singled 
him out immediately as an admirer for herself. 

To-night her eyes sparkled merrily, and her lovely 
little face was alive with fun and coquetry. 

“You are better off than most of your sex here 
this evening,” she said naively; “for Miss Baillie 
and I are by far the best-looking women in the 
theatre, and you have us both all to yourself.” 

“A little pig in clover,” whispered Emily into 
Lord Hardstock’s other ear. 

Under cover of the music. Daphne made a small 
confession. “ Do you know,” she said, archly, “ that 
I actually fancied you were fond of my sister-in-law. ” 

“So I am. I admire Mrs. Armitage immensely.” 

“ Ah ! but I thought you were in love with her. 
Wasn’t it absurd of me? I do get the oddest no- 
tions into my head sometimes.” 

“ And how did you find out your mistake?” 

“ Constance enlightened me. She was most indig- 
nant. You never had been and never would be her 
lover,” she said. 

“Very probably. No doubt her choice lies else- 
130 


CONSTANCE. 


131 

where. I always believed that she was attached to 
St. Quentin,” he said, in a tone that had a flavor 
\of bitterness about it. “ Anyhow, he was frightfully 
gone over her.” 

It was Daphne’s turn to feel uncomfortable. 

“Oh no!” she said, “you are quite mistaken. I 
am perfectly certain there is nothing between them.” 

“ You ought to know, of course,” said Lord Hard- 
stock, caressing his moustache thoughtfully; “for 
they must have met pretty often at your house when 
Mrs. Armitage was in Paris.” 

This was a feeler, but Daphne swallowed the bait. 
“Perhaps,” she remarked coquettishly, and with 
drooping eyelids, “perhaps he might have found 
other attractions there. ” 

Lord Hardstock could scarcely be blamed for em- 
bracing the golden opportunity thus presented to 
him, and assuring the silly little woman that had he 
been in St. Quentin’s place he should have had eyes 
for no one but her. 

And Daphne believed every word he said. She 
gave vent to a little sigh that meant a good deal, 
and she leaned back in her chair with a pleased ex- 
pression on her face — a little embarrassed, perhaps, 
but a great deal gratified. All this was not, as may 
be well imagined, very entertaining for a third party. 
The piece was stupid, there was no one in the house 
worth looking at, and that atrocious little flirt, Mrs. 
Gerald Armitage, was endeavoring to lure her lover 
into whispered confidences. Miss Baillie’s patience 
was quickly exhausted. 

“I feel quite faint,” she murmured languidly. 
“The heat is most oppressive.” 

Her ruse was successful. Lord Hardstock turned 
toward her in alarm, and from that moment divided 
his attention between the ladies. 

“ I might have had a much better time if we had 
not brought that wretched governess with us,” rc- 


132 


CONSTANCE. 


fleeted Daphne, as they drove homeward. “ I am 
sure Lord Hardstock admires me immensely.” 

“ Catch me going out again with Mrs. Gerald, ” 
was Miss Baillie’s outspoken thought. “ She would 
like me to play gooseberry, but you don’t catch a 
weasel asleep.” 

Lord Hardstock began dimly to perceive that he 
had made a mistake. 

“Good-night, Lord Hardstock,” said Miss Baillie, 
holding out her hand. 

“Oh, don’t go; pray come in,” cried Daphne en- 
treatingly. “ Constance is sure to be sitting up 
for us.” 

Mrs. Armitage was in the drawing-room, and 
came to the door. “ How have you enjoyed it?” she 
asked. 

“ Pretty well. Three’s a stupid number, ” answered 
Daphne, with a pout, whereupon Emily turned round 
quickly. 

“ Perhaps you will wait to make your ill-bred re- 
marks until the third person has disappeared,” said 
she. And she flew up the staircase to her own room. 

“What on earth have I done?” asked Daphne, lift- 
ing an innocent and puzzled face to her companions. 
“ I always seem to be putting my foot in it. But 
what a virago that girl is! I should be afraid to live 
under the same roof with her.” 

“I have hardly ever seen her out of temper,” 
said Constance. “Your remark was very ill-timed. 
Daphne. ” 

“Oh, if people are so ridiculously thin-skinned 
they must expect a pin-prick or two. ” 

Lord Hardstock said nothing. He did not care to 
espouse Emily’s cause, fearing the construction that 
the others might put upon it, but in his heart he 
felt extremely vexed. The girl had been behaving 
so admirably of late that it was a pity this little fire- 
brand should have come into their midst to upset 


CONSTANCE. 


133 


everything. With all her beauty, Daphne was not a 
favorite , of his. He read her narrow, selfish *little 
soul, and heartily pitied the man who called her 
wife. As for Emily, she cried herself to sleep that 
night. Never in her life had she been so insulted. 
Mrs. Armitage, looking at her swollen eyes and 
tear-stained face, was not altogether surprised when, 
immediately after breakfast, she asked to be allowed 
a few words alone, and then made a request that 
she should be permitted to take a week’s holiday. 

“ I would rather give up my position altogether 
than have to endure any more insolence from Mrs. 
Gerald,” she added hotly. 

“I am very, very sorry,” Constance said gently. 
“ I fear my sister-in-law’s tongue runs away with 
her, and that she hardly knows what she does say. 
But, pray take the holiday you ask for. Miss Baillie; 
there is no reason whatever why you should not 
doso. ” 

Before nightfall. Miss Baillie had reconsidered 
her decision. Mrs. Strangw’ays had written inviting 
Daphne to spend a few days with her, as she had 
some extra dissipation, in the shape of two dinner- 
parties, one pf which was to be followed by a dance. 
Of course, Daphne was eager to accept, and ran off 
to pen a reply. Constance gave a sigh of relief. So 
Daphne packed up her trunks, singing to herself t|je 
while, overjoyed at the prospect before her. 

When she came downstairs, in an'exquisite walking 
costume, and wearing her latest purchase — a hat of 
somewhat pronounced shape — Constance looked up 
in surprise. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ surely you are not thinking 
of going to Clarges Street now? I intend to drive 
you there later on.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said, with a pretence 
of indifference. “I may just as well have a hansom 
and start at once. You see I shall have to unpack. 


134 


CONSTANCE. 


and it is more than unlikely that Mrs. Strangways 
may*have guests to-night.” 

Constance said no more, but kissed the pretty face 
and stood watching the hansom drive away. The 
luggage had some time before been fetched by Dyne 
in a four-wheeler. 

After she had gone, Constance took her little 
daughter on her lap and instructed her in some of 
the intricacies of needlework. 

“Mamma,” said Eva suddenly, “do you love 
Auntie Daphne?” 

“Very much. She is a pretty lady, Eva, is she 
not?” 

“ It is better to be good than pretty,” answered the 
child, drawing herself up with a superior air. 

“Yes, it certainly is. But Aunt Daphne is 
both.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Eva, looking extremely doubtful. 
“ I am glad I am not her little girl, ” she continued 
gravely. 

Miss Baillie was in her room, and they spent a 
cosy afternoon together. Eva was singing nursery 
rhymes when the door opened and Mrs. Strangways 
entered. 

“Where in the world is Mrs. Gerald?” she asked. 

“Is she not with you?” said Constance, looking 
frightened. “ She left here at three o’clock.” 

“ And it is now six. Well, I can’t wait. I prom- 
ised to look in at Lady Fitz-Hugh’s this afternoon, 
and as Daphne had not arrived I thought I would 
pick her up and take her there with me.” 

“It is very strange,” said Constance. “Surely 
nothing has happened to her, Rebecca?” 

“ What should happen to her in broad daylight? 
You always speak of your sister-in-law as if she were 
a perfect baby. ” 

“ And in truth she is little more, ” said Constance, 
becoming very anxious. After her sister had de- 


CONSTANCE. 135 

parted, she put on her bonnet and drove to Clarges 
Street. 

Mrs. Gerald had not yet arrived, so Constance sat 
down to wait with what patience she could muster. 
At a quarter to seven Mrs. Strangways returned. 
Still no Daphne. At last a hansom drove up at a 
sharp trot, and a minute later Daphne’s voice could 
be heard on the stairs. 

“Am I late? O Mrs. Strangwa3"s, do forgive me!” 
She paused, amazed to find Constance there, and 
looked very uncomfortable. 

“ Where have you been?” asked Constance, almost 
on the verge of tears. She had really been very 
uneasy, and was more than a little relieved to find 
that nothing had happened to her sister-in-law. 

Daphne’s face quickly assumed a defiant aspect. 
“I have been shopping, ” she said. “There were 
several things I wanted. You always hurry one so, 
Constance. I could spend hours in looking in at the 
windows and turning over the pretty things on the 
counters. It is such absurdity to pretend that one is 
obliged to buy everything one looks at. What are 
the men behind the counters for except to wait on 
people?” She rattled on, evidently with a wish to 
gain time. 

“ And where did you go?” asked Mrs. Strangways, 
looking upon her sister’s distress as ridiculous and 
unnecessary. But the girl’s answer somewhat stag- 
gered her. 

“I went to the Burlington Arcade,” she said, 
“ and to tell you the truth, I was horribly disappointed. 
I thought it was a dreadful place — you know you said 
so, Constance; but I never saw a single thing. In 
fact, it was nearly empty. There were a few people 
strolling up and down, but hardly any one in the 
shops.” 

Constance was almost speechless. 

“ I met with an adventure, though, ” continued 


136 


CONSTANCE. 


Daphne briskly, as though it was the most delightfu 
thing in the world. “ I went into one of the flower 
shops, and ordered some exquisite gardenias for to- 
morrow, and when I came out I crossed over to look 
at some dear little brooches in a window opposite. 
A tall and fine, and, ohi such a handsome rrian, Con- 
stance — I believe he was a duke, at least — touched 
me on the arm. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said; 
‘you have dropped your handkerchief. ’ Of course, 
I thanked him, and was going to put it in my pocket 
when I saw that it was not mine at all — mine are 
all initialled, you know. Funny, wasn’t it? But we 
were good friends after that.” 

Constance glanced at her sister. Mrs. Strangway ’s 
face was set after the method common to her when 
vexed. “ Surely you did not allow a stranger to 
enter into conversation with you. Daphne? You 
must have known it was most improper.” 

“ But he was quite a gentleman. ” 

“ He would most certainly not imagine that you 
were a lady. ” 

“ I am sure he liked me ver)^ much. You are 
always so cross, Constance. Everything I do is 
wrong.” 

“ Have you spent all these hours with this man 
then?” put in Rebecca sternly. 

“ Oh, no. We walked down Piccadilly, and he 
wanted me to have some lunch at — I forget where 
— but I wasn’t hungry, so I asked him to call a han- 
som. O Constance! I have not seen such a hand- 
some man since I have been in London.” 

“ Did he hear you tell the man where to drive?” 
asked Constance miserably. 

“ I don’t know — yes, he must have done, for I 
asked him what the fare was to Clarges Street before 
I got in. The dishonest cabman insisted on having 
two shillings, although he had mistaken the address 
and drove me somewhere out on Holborn. Then, 


CONSTANCE. 


137 


just as I got down, feeling sure that it was not the 
right street, who should I see but Lord Hardstock. 
Was it not fortunate? I told him all my troubles, and 
he took me somewhere and gave me a cup of tea, 
and at last I found my way here. Quite a chapter of 
accidents, wasn’t it? But I think I managed to get 
out of them very well. ” 

Constance rose to her feet with what was, for her, 
quite a tragic air. “ My dear Daphne,” she said, more 
coldly than that young lady had ever heard her 
speak, “ I shall send you back to Gerald. I simply 
dare not take the responsibility of you any longer.” 

“ Now what have I done?” asked Daphne, falling 
back on her old cry. “ I could not prevent the man 
speaking to me, and it was not my fault that the cab- 
man drove me wrong. I always get blamed for 
everything. ” 

Constance could have laughed, only that she felt 
too heart-sick. She did not believe that her sister- 
in-law was the innocent, unsophisticated creature she 
pretended to be. “ However quietly she may have 
been brought up in India, at all events she has lived 
in Europe long enough to know that ladies do not 
make acquaintances with men they chance to meet 
in the streets,” she told herself. “There is a good 
deal of method in Daphne’s madness and reckless- 
ness.” It was not for nothing that she had donned 
her finest gown and sported her new hat. “ Oh, my 
poor Gerald!” she thought, “I much fear that you 
will have all your work cut out for you.” 


/ 


CHAPTER XXI. 


The immediate result of Daphne’s escapade was 
that Mr. Armitage received a letter from his sister- 
in-law which was a marvel of tact and diplomacy. 
In the first place, she begged him to spare them a 
few days, and told him what pleasure it would give 
her could she succeed in inducing him ‘to do so. 
Then, too, she suggested that he must be quite lost 
without his pretty little wife, and lastly she hinted 
that too much independence might not be produc- 
tive of the best results to a character such as Daphne’s. 
She did not, of course, in so many words say “ Fetch 
her home,” but Mr. Armitage must have been very 
dull of comprehension had he for one instant mis- 
taken her meaning. 

Two days later he arrived. He had business in 
London, he said, and he had determined to kill two 
birds with one stone — transact his business and then 
escort Daphne back to Paris. 

“I hope,” said Constance, “that at least you will 
spend a week in London, now you are here.” 

“ A day or two, ” he answered — “ not longer. Where 
is my wife?” 

“ She is still on a visit to Mrs. Strangways. I 
expect her back to-morrow. You will not go to 
Clarges Street to-night? I know that my sister and 
Daphne are going to a dance.” 

Constance spoke anxiously, for she dreaded the 
effect her husband’s appearance might have on the 
wilful girl, and she was anxious not to widen the 
gulf between them. 

“Oh, no! I should not think of it. It is late, and 
138 


CONSTANCE. 


139 


to tell you the truth I am rather done up. It was 
a rough crossing, and I am not the best of sailors.” 

Though Constance felt relieved, she could not but 
notice how indifferent his manner was, and wonder 
a little that he should not show more eagerness to 
see his wife after so long a separation. Daphne duly 
returned the following afternoon, all smiles and dim- 
ples. No one had told her that Gerald had arrived, 
and she ran lightly upstairs into the drawing-room. 

“ Oh ! I have had such fun !” she cried, and then 
she paused. The color died out of her face. “ Well, 
I never! What has brought you here?” she added, 
in quite a different tone, and lifted her cheek for 
her husband’s caress. 

“You don’t seem particularly overjoyed at seeing 
me,” said Mr. Armitage. 

“I hate surprises,” snapped Daphne, “and I think 
you ought to have written and told me you were 
coming.” 

“You did not expect me to stay away forever, did 
you? I suppose it never struck you that home might 
be a trifle dull for me alone?” 

Daphne’s eyes filled slowly with tears. “Then 
you have come to take me back?” she faltered. 

“ You must not outstay your welcome. You have 
paid a long visit already, my child.” 

“ Just as I was enjoying myself so much, ” she cried, 
with the air of a child when bedtime is at hand. 

“ Have you been so very happy then?” 

There was a certain wistfulness in histone. Hov/ 
he would love her, this fractious, spoilt child, if 
she would let him. But it was always the same. 
He felt himself held at arm’s length. He was too 
grave and too sad, and her buoyant nature craved for 
youth and sunshine. Two years ago, it had not 
seemed to Gerald Armitage that he was too old for 
his wife ; but now it was no uncommon thing for 
the conviction to force itself upon him. 


140 


CONSTANCE. 


“ I never was so happy. ” The tears rolled down 
her cheeks on to the pretty gown she wore. With 
an impatient gesture she dashed them away and 
sprang from her chair. At the door she almost ran 
into Constance’s arms. 

“ My dear, Lord Hardstock is here. Now, don’t 
run away.” 

Mrs. Armitage, seeing signs of distress in her sis- 
ter-in-law’s face, passed her quickly and closed the 
door. 

Lord Hardstock was just ascending the stairs. In 
an instant Daphne darted down them into the hall. 

“All our fun is over,” she cried, clasping her 
hands round his arm. “ My jailer has come for me. 
Oh! what am I to do?” 

The real position of affairs did not strike Lord 
Hardstock for the moment. He saw that Daphne 
was in trouble, and that the pretty little face was 
stained with tears. Hating to see a woman — and 
especially a pretty woman — in distress, without paus- 
ing to reflect he drew her into the dining-room. 

“ What in the world is the matter?” he asked. 

Then Daphne began to pour out her troubles. 
Gerald had come to take her back to Paris, and she 
hated the life there. Her husband was so slow, so 
stupid, even cross sometimes; and then she added, 
with a coquettish uplifting of her eyebrows, “ I don’t 
want you to go. Lord Hardstock. ” 

Lord Hardstock soothed her, although his sym- 
pathies were scarcely enlisted on her side quite as 
much'as she imagined they were. He could easily 
understand that Mr. Armitage did sometimes lose 
his temper, and had adequate cause for doing so. 
But of course he did not tell the little lady this. 
What he did say was that any man must be a brute 
who could speak sharply to her. Daphne wept a 
few more tears, and then, with a swift recollecton 
that her face was apt to bear such traces for an 


CONSTANCE. 


14I 

unpleasant length of time, she carefully dried them 
and endeavored to be comforted. 

“You will come over to Paris and see me often, 
won’t you?” she pleaded. 

He promised he would do as she wished — without 
the faintest intention of carrying out such a 
promise. 

Upstairs in the drawing-room Mrs. -Armitage 
waited in vain for the visitor whose arrival had been 
announced. Unfortunately she had informed her 
brother-in-law that Lord Hardstock had called, and 
they both sat watching the door and marvelling at 
his non-appearance. 

Constance rang the bell. “ Where is Lord Hard- 
stock?” she asked, when a servant answered her 
summons. 

“I don’t know, ma’am,” said the girl, looking 
round the room as though his lordship might be 
hiding behind the curtains. “ I saw him go up the 
stairs.” 

“ Another time you will take visitors up to the 
drawing-room yourself, and not leave them to find 
their way alone,” said Mrs. Armitage sternly. 

“ Is it Lord Hardstock who is lost, stolen, or 
strayed?” cried Miss Baillie, as she passed the door. 
“He is in the dining-room with Mrs. Gerald.” 

“Yes, and they don’t want me,” cried little Eva, 
who had hold of her governess’ hand, and appeared 
extremely indignant. “ ‘ Little girls should not go 
where they are not wanted,’ Auntie Daphne said, 
and she’d been crying, so I don’t expect she’s a 
bit gooder than me. ” 

Having fired her shot. Miss Baillie dragged her 
charge upstairs. 

Constance scarcely dared to look at her brother-in- 
law. Rising hurriedly, and murmuring something 
about hot rooms and Daphne, she left Mr. Armitage 
to himself. Opening the dining-room door, she 


142 


CONSTANCE. 


walked straight up to her sister-in-law, entirely ignor- 
ing Lord Hardstock’s presence. 

“Are you mad?” she said angrily. “Upon my 
word, I would not have believed that you could have 
been so foolhardy. For pity’s sake go up to your 
husband and make what explanation you can.” 

Daphne stared at her in absolute amazement. 
Evidently she had not the most remote conception 
that she had been misconducting herself. 

“As for you. Lord Hardstock,” continued Mrs. 
Armitage, “ I can find no words in which to express 
my annoyance that you should have encouraged my 
sister-in-law in acting so indiscreetly. ” 

“ I pledge you my word,” began Lord Hardstock, 
wishing himself a hundred leagues away, and anathe- 
matizing the luckless cause of this rebuke, “ I pledge 
you my word I had not the least idea of worrying 
you in any way. ” 

Daphne stood her ground. Having rolled her 
handkerchief into a ball, she was vigorously admin- 
istering a dab to her eyes here and there where the 
tears were still not quite dried. Most devoutly did 
sbe hope that they were not pink-rimmed. 

“ Why did you not come upstairs, and what has 
possessed you to stay down here alone? There must 
be some explanation for such an unusual proceed- 
ing, ” said Mrs. Armitage. Little did she guess what 
wild hopes she was raising in Lord Hardstock’s 
breast. He had jumped at once to the conclusion 
that she was jealous of his attentions to her sister-in- 
law, and that she was piqued and wounded at his 
having remained with her so long. Of course, such 
a ridiculous idea had never once crossed her mind. 
All she feared was an open rupture between husband 
and wife. 

“I will bid you good-afternoon now,” she said, 
holding out her hand. “ Mr. Armitage is here, and 
while he remains I shall not be at home to visitors.” 


CONSTANCE. 143 

And she deliberately turned her back upon Lord 
Hardstock. 

Not knowing what to make of this, but on the 
whole believing that it might be construed into a 
sign of warmer feeling for himself, Lord Hardstock 
took up his hat and a moment later the hall door 
shut upon him. 

At the end of five minutes Mrs. Armitage returned 
to the drawing-room and Daphne’s husband. 

“ Is that Lord Hardstock who has just gone?” he 
asked suspiciously. “What did he want with my 
wife?” 

Constance laid her hands softly on his arm. “ It 
did seem strange,” she said, “told as we heard it 
told; but the matter was simple enough. Daphne 
had commissioned Lord Hardstock to buy some bric- 
a-brac for her, and it was really her and not me he 
came to see this afternoon. That explains it, you see. ” 
Constance was not an adept in the art of lying, 
and her wavering color and the manner in which 
her eyes — eyes so loyal and honest — refused to meet 
his own, gave him an uncomfortable sense of uneasi- 
ness, but inclining to the idea that Lord Hardstock 
was a suitor of Constance, he tried to dismiss from 
his mind the wretched doubts and fears that had 
been crowding in upon it during the last quarter of 
an hour. He said no more, and Daphne having been 
soundly scolded by her sister-in-law, and warned that 
if she did not hold out the olive branch and con- 
duct herself graciously to her husband she would 
inevitably be spirited off the next day, came to the 
conclusion that she had better behave herself, and 
really tried to do so. 

But it was a wearisome evening. Constance was 
out of spirits, and Daphne yawned continuously; 
Mr. Armitage felt that what little conversation he 
was capable of fell very flat, and Miss Baillie sat 
absolutely voiceless and mute. 


144 


CONSTANCE. 


She felt perfectly wretched, unhappy girl that she 
was. She told herself that her heart was breaking. 
What could Rupert mean by flirting in this open and 
outrageous fashion under her very nose? Had he 
possessed a particle of respect and esteem for her, 
he would, at least, have made some effort to cloak 
his infidelities. 

Oh, how she longed for Mr. Armitage to carry off 
his! wife She felt that she never so cordially de- 
tested one of her own sex before. Several times 
during that evening Mr. Armitage glanced at the 
governess, wondering where he had seen that face 
before. 

“ You are not altogether a stranger to me, I think?” 
he said to her at last. “ I must have met you some- 
where.” Emily shivered. “Heaven forbid!” she 
murmured to herself piously. She forced herself to 
lift her eyes serenely to the keen ones bent upon her. 

“ I am quite sure,” she said sweetly, “that I have 
no recollection of having seen you before. I think I 
must have a double, for I am so constantly being 
mistaken for some one else.” 

“I’d stake my life I have seen and spoken to that 
girl before,” said Mr. Armitage to his wife a little 
later on. “I remember her voice distinctly — that 
slow, sweet drawl. Do you know if she has ever 
been in Paris, Daphne?” 

“ No, the subject does not really interest me. I 
am not in the least interested in Miss Baillie, I can 
assure you. ” 

This, however, did not deter Mr. Armitage from 
putting the question himself to Emily. The girl’s 
heart sank within her. 

“ Once, and once only, I was in Paris. ” she said. “ I 
was very young, and remember but little of the city. ” 

“ Ah ! Then of course I must have been mistaken, ” 
said Mr. Armitage. But he was far from convinced 
that Emily was speaking the truth. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


It was very quiet after Daphne had gone. Peace 
settled down on the little household in West Kens- 
ington once more, and Constance was grateful for 
the respite. She was not feeling well, and she was 
terribly worried and troubled just now. Utterly 
unused to economy, she had outstripped her income, - 
and the bills that came pouring in staggered her. ‘ 
In something like despair she went down to Bedford 
Row. Mr. Bolder was in and genuinely glad to see 
her. His welcome was so cordial that Constance’s 
heart pricked her. She felt that she had neglected 
him of late. A little attention to the old man who 
had been so true and steadfast a friend both to her 
father and to herself was only what he might have 
expected. Yet it was not until trouble stared her in 
the face that she thought of him. 

In a little confusion, she 'stated her errand. “ I 
must dip into my capital, I suppose,” she said rue- 
fully. “ There is nothing else for it.” 

“A pity, a great pity! You will excuse my say- 
ing so, but, indeed, my dear lady, you must try and 
live within your income. You ought to do so with 
perfect ease. The rent you are paying for your 
house is not large, and there is only yourself and 
your little girl.” 

“ I must have servants — there are two. The work 
could not be done properly with less, and Eva has a 
governess now. It is true I do not pay her any salary, 
but she is an addition to the household, and of course 
I have to give her an occasional present. The fact 
is, I spent too much money at Scarborough this 
year.” 

lo 145 


146 


CONSTANCE. 


Mr. Bolder took up the bills she had laid on the 
table and looked through them in silence. 

“ I really cannot see anything here to find fault 
with,” he said at last. “The only one that is at all 
heavy in proportion to your income is Messrs. Tul- 
loch’s account.” 

“ The livery stables. Yes, my poor Judith has cost 
a great deal. I did not think a guinea a week too 
much when I made the agreement with them, but 
you see that is only for the pony’s actual keep. 
There are so many extras — cloths, sponges, the 
man’s fees who grooms her and keeps the carriage 
in good order. That is what makes it run up.” 

“ I should advise your making some other arrange- 
ment. It is more than you ought to pay — actually 
more than Arthur’s education costs.” 

“Yes — I — do you think I ought to dispense with 
a carriage of my own altogether? ” 

“ I do. It seems hard to say so, but there is no 
disputing the fact that to keep a horse runs away 
with a lot of money — more, indeed, than you are 
justified in paying. ” 

“Then I will sell her. Poor old Judith, I have 
really grown attached to her ! It must be five or six 
years since Cyril bought her for my especial use,* 
and she is a pretty creature.” 

“ I wonder you ever thought of keeping her, under 
your straitened circumstances,” remarked the lawyer. 

For the moment Constance had lost sight of the 
fact that both Judith and the carriage had been pres- 
ents from Lord Hardstock. It would be ungracious 
to part with them. Something of this she tried to 
explain to Mr. Bolder. 

“ It will be awkward,” she said. 

“ Not at all. Why should it be? Simply tell his 
lordship that you find it too expensive to keep a 
horse in town.” 

“ But ” she hesitated. The conviction was 


CONSTANCE. 


147 


strong upon her that Lord Hardstock would refuse to 
allow her to make any such sacrifice. “ And I am 
under far too many obligations as it is,” she told her- 
self. 

“Will you arrange the matter for me?” she asked 
the lawyer. “ Sell them both, and get what you can. 
It will go toward paying the bills.” 

“Yes, certainly, I will do my best. But, my dear 
Mrs. Armitage, you are not to worry unnecessarily. 
There is really no cause for you to do so. Curtail 
your expenses as much as possible, and I think we 
can manage to get enough to pay off the most pressing 
of these bills without encroaching on your capital.” 

“How good you are!” Tears glittered in Con- 
stance’s eyes. 

Mr. Bolder took her hands in his. “ A little bird 
has whispered to me,” he began, “that Mrs. Armi- 
tage may win back her old home if she pleases.” 

“Then that little bird was misinformed.” Con- 
stance spoke lightly, but she was much annoyed. 
Who could have spread such a report? “The first 
year of my widowhood is not at an end yet,” she 
added. “ It is in bad taste to discuss the question 
at all.” 

“You must pardon me. I am only anxious for 
your future.” 

“I am sure of that ; but now that we are on the 
subject, let me assure you that I have no warmer 
feeling for Lord Hardstock than regard and friend- 
ship, and that under no possible circumstances could 
what you have suggested ever come about.” 

He looked at her a little curiously. Evidently she 
was in earnest, and he was sorry for it. If she could 
have brought herself to care for Lord Hardstock 
everything might have been made so easy for her. 
And why not? His lordship was handsome, well- 
bred, and, the world said, a favorite with most of 
the gentler sex. 


148 


CONSTANCE. 


Judith was sold, and Constance actually shed a 
few tears over her old friend, when she gave her her 
last lump of sugar. Rebecca was very angry when 
she heard what her sister had done. 

“I think it really unkind of you, Constance,” she 
said. “ If there was any real need for such a step, 
which I do not believe, you might have mentioned 
it to me.” 

Mrs. Strangwa5^s dreaded what Lord Hardstock 
would say when the news came to his ears, as come 
it must. After a good deal of reflection, she made 
u.p her mind to break it to him herself. She set 
about her task with the utmost diplomacy. Her 
forebodings were fully realized. Lord Hardstock 
was extremely angry. He felt that Constance, in 
treating his gift so unceremoniously, had wished to 
strike a blow at himself, and something of this sort 
he said to Mrs. Strangways. 

Rebecca looked horrified. 

“ If you could but have heard what she said — poor 
Constance! She begged me to keep the knowledge 
from you, for ‘I know his kind heart will prompt 
him to help me still further ’ she said, ‘and that 
must not be!’ ” 

“ Why not?” asked Lord Hardstock. “ Dear Mrs. 
Strangways, as my friend, and knowing all I feel 
for Mrs. Armitage, could you not have hinted that 
my only desire is to place all I have at her disposal?” 

“ It is too soon. No one will win Constance but 
by patience and steadfastness. She. has a curious 
nature, and although she is gentleness itself she is 
by no means pliable.” 

“ Do you think she will see me if I call?” 

“ Why not?” 

“Well, to speak frankly, she has never been quite 
the same to me since that unfortunate afternoon’s 
business with Mrs. Gerald. I am sure she wishes 
me to understand that she is displeased,” 


CONSTANCE. 


149 


Mrs. Strangways reflected in silence. At last she 
said : “ Constance does not bear animosity for long, 

and she dislikes quarrelling as much as you or I do. 
Therefore, your better plan is to go boldly to Kens- 
ington and make your peace.” 

And Lord Hardstock took her advice. 

Mrs. Armitage was not at home! For a moment 
he hesitated, and then, letting his annoyance get the 
better of him: “Is she actually not in the house?” 
he asked. “Or have you received orders not to 
admit me?” 

The girl looked surprised, as well she might. 

“Oh, no, my lord! My mistress has never given 
me any such order, I assure you.” 

Within three or four days he called again, and 
this time subterfuge or excuse was out of the ques- 
tion, for Constance stood looking out of the window, 
and, as he approached the house, of course Lord 
Hardstock saw her. 

With fast-beating pulses and a nervous feeling 
upon her, which she felt wholly unable to overcome, 
she rose to greet him. She had no need to disquiet 
herself. Lord Hardstock had never been so agree- 
able. He touched lightly on the ordinary subjects 
of the day, asked after his little friend, Eva, and 
said that when Arthur came home he must be allowed 
to take him out occasionall)^ Then in quite a casual 
way he remarked : 

“Awfully sorry you felt obliged to part with Ju- 
dith, Mrs. Armitage.” 

Constance drew a long breath of relief. 

“ My expenses are too heavy to allow of my keep- 
ing a horse,” she said. 

“You are the best judge of that, of course. I 
can only regret that you were compelled to do 
so. 

Struggling with herself, Constance tried to say 
something gracious. She felt that in common de- 


CONSTANCE. 


150 

cency she must not let him think that she was wholly 
without gratitude. 

“I was very fond of Judith,” she said. “ In the 
first place I had had her so long. Then, too, there 
was the fear of giving you pain, as it was only 
through your great kindness that I got her back. ” 
It was not quite what she had intended to say. 

“O Constance, surely you know,” began his 
lordship in a tone there was no mistaking; but at 
that moment, to her mother’s intense relief, Eva’s 
bright little face appeared at the door. 

“Aren’t you ever coming, mamma? We’ve been 
ready for ever so long.” Then catching sight of the 
visitor — “Oh, come, too, Lord Hardstock; we are 
all going shopping. I am to have a new hat. ” 

“ No, I don’t fancy that the expedition would fur- 
nish much amusement to any one but yourself, dear.” 

Eva clung to her mother’s hand, evidently deter- 
mined not to lose sight of her again. 

“ Which way are you going? If toward Oxford 
Street, perhaps I might be allowed to accompany 
you.” 

“ We are going to take an omnibus which will put 
us down at Piccadilly Circus, and shall walk up 
Regent Street. If you do not despise that method 
of conveyance, by all means come too. ” 

Whereupon Mrs. Armitage went away to put on 
her bonnet, and a minute or two later Miss Baillie 
came into the drawing-room. 

“I am sent to entertain you,” she said bitterl)^ 
“ What a farce it all is ! I am, oh, so weary of this 
life, Rupert.” 

It suited his purpose to be very gentle with her. 
Emily was infinitely more amenable to reason than 
when he resorted to a bullying tone, and Eva having 
rushed to the further end of the room, intent on 
investigating the contests of her mother’s work-bas- 
ket, he stooped and kissed the red lips. 


CONSTANCE. 


151 


“Some day!” he whispered. 

“The lane of ‘some time’ runs into the road of 
‘never, ’ ” said she. “ I am losing heart and faith and 
hope altogether.” 

“And — love — as well, Emily?” 

How much of tenderness and reproach he could 
throw into his eyes when he chose. Emily trem- 
bled and looked down. 

“ Why have you not been to see me all this week, 
my little darling? I waited for you on Tuesday, 
and again on Friday until late.” 

It was not true, and perhaps she was not altogether 
beguiled into believing what he said. She wished 
she could believe in him. For with all her heart 
she loved him, and yearned for his affection in 
return. 

“ It is not always easy to get away. Mrs. Armi- 
tage had a headache, and I did not know whether 
you would expect me on Friday. When shall I 
come?” 

“ When you will. You are always welcome. You 
do not need that I should tell you that.” But he did 
not specify any particular evening, and afterward 
Emily remembered it. 

Eva walked slowly and thoughtfully up to them, 
lifting her big blue eyes and surveying their faces 
with a puzzled expression on her own. 

“ Who do you love best,” she asked — “ Miss Baillie 
or my mamma?” 

Lord Hardstock laughed. 

“ Do you always love best the lady you are talking 
to?” persisted the child. 

“ My dear Eva, what a question ! Why do you ask 
such silly things?” 

“ Because you look like this” — putting on a most 
exaggerated expression of anxiety and tenderness — 
“ when you talk to mamma, and like this” — distorting 
her chubby features into a sentimental look that so 


152 


CONSTANCE. 


enraged Miss Baillie that she caught the child by 
the hand and forcibly put her into a chair. 

“ Not another word, ” she said sternly. “ Sit still. 
If you speak again we shall go out without you.” 

After that they could only talk on the most ordi- 
nary topics until Mrs. Armitage came down equipped 
for her walk. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


The reader will not have followed Lord Hardstock 
so far without having gauged his moral depth, and 
realized that his standpoint of female excellence was 
a very low one. Yet there was something about 
Constance Armitage that appealed to the better, 
nobler man within him, and which, had she recipro- 
cated his attachment, might have gone far toward 
redeeming him. 

He was sincere in his love for her, but Constance 
would have none of his love. He had displayed a 
good deal of tact and diplomacy during the last six 
months, and he felt he ought to have his reward. 

Arthur came home for his holidays in August, and 
by being kind to the lad Lord Hardstock strove to 
ingratiate himself with his mother, but, beyond ex- 
pressing her thanks for the trouble he took, Con- 
stance did not appear to be in any way impressed. 
The boy, oddly enough, despite his lordship’s gifts 
and the many sights he took, him to see, was not 
in the least attached to him. He had inherited his 
mother’s keen insight into motive, and considerably 
startled her one day by asking, point-blank: 

“ Why does Lord Hardstock take me about so much, 
mamma? I am sure he is frightfully bored the 
whole time, and does not enjoy it a bit. Have you 
asked him to?” 

“ No, my boy. I suppose it is because he likes 
giving pleasure to young people.” 

Arthur laughed sceptically. 

“ I doubt it. I am certain he has no particular 
liking for me personally, for I overheard him saying 
153 


154 


CONSTANCE. 


to a friend of his that it was a confounded nuisance 
having to trot a young cub about. The other man 
said something about him — Lord Hardstock — having 
turned ‘bear-leader. ’ ” 

Constance colored painfully. 

“You shall not go out with him again,” she said 
quickly. 

Boy-like, Arthur had fallen in love with his sister’s 
governess. Emily’s beauty had made a tremendous 
impression upon him, and he became her most 
devoted slave. Emily, who despised no offering, 
however humble, at beauty’s shrine, amused herself 
with him. 

He was bright and clever, but being older than 
Eva he had more tact, and refrained from the out- 
spoken remarks and ill-timed frankness that made 
her a child to be feared and avoided. He was now 
nine years old, and precocious for his years. 

“Miss Baillie,” he said one day, as he rested his 
curly head against her shoulder, “you’re not very 
kind to Dr. Dale. I wish you would be. He is so 
nice.” 

Two days after Arthur left school he had managed 
to sprain his thumb, and Mrs. Armitage sent him 
round to the surgery, whereupon he then and there 
struck up a friendship with the doctor, and had been 
invited once or twice to tea. 

“ I hope I am always polite to everybody,” returned 
Miss Baillie demurely. 

“ But he has asked you to go with me next Wed- 
nesday, and you won’t go.” 

“ No dear. I would rather not.” 

“ You’ll change your mind — ladies always do. 
It’s their provocation. I heard mamma say so.” 

“ Don’t you think you mean prerogative?” slyly. 

“Oh, well yes, perhaps you are right. I can’t 
know everything right away, anyhow. Miss Baillie, ” 
he added coaxingly, “do come on Wednesday. It’s 


CONSTANCE. 155 

4 

no end jolly. We play dominoes, Miss Janet and I, 
and whoever wins gets a box of chocolates.” 

“Very exciting, I must say.” 

“Yes, isn’t it? Then you will come.” 

The lad jumped up with alacrity. “I’ll go right 
round and tell the doctor. He’ll be so glad.” 

“You will do no such thing, Arthur; sit down.” 
Miss Baillie pushed him back on his chair. “ Now 
tell me exactly, word for word, what the doctor said 
to you. Did he bid you ask me?” 

“ No — not that. What he said was — let me see — 
‘It is too bad Miss Baillie won’t join us. You must 
try what you can do to persuade her, my boy. ’ That 
was all. ” 

“ And what did Miss Janet say?” 

“ Oh, she wasn’t there. ” 

“ Humph ! well, when she sends me a proper invi- 
tation, I’ll think about it.” 

At that moment the door opened to admit Mrs. 
Armitage and Eva, who was in a state of wild excite- 
ment. 

“OMiss Baillie,” she cried, “we have just met 
the doctor, and I’m to go, as well as Arthur, on 
Wednesday.” 

“The doctor made such a point of it I could 
hardly refuse,” said Constance. “ You will not mind 
going with them. Miss Baillie?” 

“I am invited, then?” 

“Well— really— I -I ” 

“ Oh, I see. I am to accompany them as their 
governess?” 

There was so much hurt pride in Emily’s tone that 
Constance bit her lip, and was at a loss what to say. 
“ I have no doubt you will receive a written invita- 
tion,” she said at last. 

And she proved correct. That very evening brought 
a note from Janet Dale, which, if not very warm, 
was at all events courteous enough. 


^ CONSTANCE.- 


156 

“ I expect poor Janet had a mauvais quart d' heureh^- 
f ore she was driven into writing this,” thought she. 

At all events it promised a change of scene and 
surroundings, and she gladdened Arthur’s heart by 
showing him the letter of acceptance. 

When the evening came, she dressed herself with 
more care and taste than she usually displayed, 
although it was only a black lace dress she wore, 
with a spray of scarlet geranium in her bodice. 

Eva, all in white, with a new blue sash and kid 
shoes to match, was dancing about, first on one leg 
and then on the other, for full half an hour before it 
was time to start. Arthur, with quite an air, offered 
his arm as soon as the hall door shut. To compro- 
mise matters. Miss Baillie put her hand on his shoul- 
der, and so the little cavalcade arrived at the doctor’s 
door. 

It was really a very pleasant evening. Miss Dale 
was either too well-bred, or she stood too much in 
awe of her brother, to allow her real feelings to rise 
to the surface; and, if a trifle glacial, was evidently 
desirous of giving no cause of offence. 

Vivian Dale was not yet cured of his fancy for the 
governess. His hand- trembled when it touched that 
of Emily, and his eye rested on her hungrily. Not 
until just before they were taking leave did she find 
herself alone with him. Janet had taken Eva up- 
stairs to tie her hat on, and Arthur was looking over 
a book of engravings. A spirit of coquetry seized 
Emily. 

“ Do you never think of me now?” she asked, lift- 
ing her bright eyes to his. 

“You know I do. Oh! in that way, you mean? 
Never again. I do not dare to risk it.” 

She laughed merrily — a silvery trill like a child’s 
laugh. “Nonsense. I do not believe you have any 
influence over me now. It has worn off by this 
time. Take my hand in yours — I feel nothing.” 


CONSTANCE. 


157 


Her fingers closed round his as she spoke, affecting 
him magnetically. 

“ In some cases I believe the power is entirely apart 
from contact,” he said, striving hard for compo.sure. 

“Oh!” She drew her red lips together with an 
arch expression. 

If propinquity has much to answer for, contact 
has more, for it has slain its tens of thousands. 

She grew agitated, a thrill ran through her, against 
her will she lifted her eyes, impelled by a power 
stronger than herself. 

Slowly the doctor’s lips formed the one word — 
Emily. , 

In another second she would have been in his 
arms, unable to struggle against his mastery over 
her; but with a swift movement he turned away and 
walked deliberately out of the room. 

“Why, you are crying, Miss Baillie?” 

Arthur was at her side in dismay. She put up 
her hands to her face, for the tears were raining 
down her cheeks. 

“ Is it toothache?” he asked, and in a second had 
flown to the door. “ Doctor,” he cried, but the doc- 
tor put him aside. 

“ Drink this, ” he said to Emily, holding a glass 
to her lips. 

It was sal-volatile. In a few minutes she was 
herself again, and when Eva and Miss Dale came 
back to them she seemed much as usual. But, at 
parting she overlooked the doctor’s outstretched 
hand, and, with a bend of her head, passed him. 
When she found herself in the street she drew a long 
breath — something between a gasp and a sob. . 

“I will not see. him again,” she told herself an- 
grily. “ It is horrible that he should influence me 
in this way!” 

Despite herself her thoughts centred themselves 
Upon him, and when she fell asleep that night sh$ 


CONSTANCE. 


158 

dreamed a strange dream. She was bound hand and 
foot, at the mercy of a monster — half-beast, half- 
human — with the body of a lion and the features of 
the man she loved — Lord Hardstock. 

Feeling that her last moment was at hand, she 
sent forth a pitiful cry for help, and on the instant 
Vivian Dale appeared, sword in hand, and with one 
quick stroke laid the monster dead at her feet. 
“You are mine — mine!” he whispered tenderly, as 
he severed the cords about her wrists. She woke, 
hot and panting, and for long hours tossed and turned 
too restless and disquieted for sleep. 

Early in September Mrs. Strang wa}% had a seri- 
ous illness. The drains were all wrong in Clarges 
Street, and Rebecca was among the first to suffer. 
For more than a week she was in great danger, and 
it was another fortnight before she was permitted 
to leave the house, and then she went straight to 
Kensington to be nursed by her sister. 

Dyne had been devotion itself. Night and day 
she was by her mistress’s side, and few would have 
suspected her of the depth of feeling she displayed. 
But “still waters run deep,” and under a rough ex- 
terior the old woman carried a grateful heart. Mrs. 
Strangways had been a kind mistress to her, and 
she herself was one of the good old class so fast dy- 
ing out. She respected and looked up to those in 
a higher position, and would freely have laid down 
her life for her mistress. But when Mrs. Strang- 
ways began to mend, poor Dyne broke down. The 
long hours and want of exercise and fresh air had 
told upon her. Nature asserted herself, and she took 
to her bed. 

“ The minute she can be moved she shall come to 
us,” cried Constance, who fully appreciated the old 
crekture’s devotion. 

When Rebecca was just able to crawl downstairs, 
looking very wan, and the ghost of her old energetic 


CONSTANCE. 


159 


self, Dyne made her appearance among them, more 
of a shadow even than her mistress, her thin hatchety 
face pinched and white, and her eyes set darkly in 
their sockets. 

“ You are to go straight to your own room and 
stop there. Dyne,” said Mrs. Armitage kindly. 

“O ma’am, if you please, I couldn’t think of it. 
I’ve come here to nurse my mistress.” 

“ No such thing. Your share of the nursing is 
over. Everything is pr-epared for you, and for a 
whold week — and longer if necessary — you are to be 
waited upon and not stir a finger. Do you hear me. 
Dyne? I can be very severe when I like.” 

“ O ma’am, begging your pardon, that’s what 
I’m sure you never couldn’t be. And such kind- 
ness as this I never see in all my born days.” 

Dyne was on the verge of tears. 

But though the spirit was willing the flesh was 
too weak for her to resist, and she was glad enough 
to creep away by and by and lay her aching bones 
in the comfortable bed provided for her. 

Dyne had a marvellous store of fairy tales for the 
little folk, and she and Eva were famous friends. 

“Dyne, you are not pretty to look at,” she con- 
fided one day, with her usual happy straightforward- 
ness; “but you have a beautiful mind.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Arthur- did not get the outing that he hoped for. 
The whole of Constance’s time was taken up with 
the invalids, and I doubt if anybody, unless it were 
Miss Baillie, was sorry when the las.t days ©f his 
holidays came, 

“It’s a shame!” he grumbled. “Mother said I 
should go to Brighton.” 

“ Illness is a thing no one can prevent,” answered 
Emily. “ I am sure you have been very happy at 
home. You forget how often Lord Hardstock took 
you out.” 

The boy was silent. Of late his lordship had not 
been so constant a visitor. The house was so dull, 
and the little drawing-room so crowded, that he had 
no chance of seeing Mrs. Armitage alone, or of say- 
ing a word that would not be overheard. Almost 
invariably Emily was present. 

Until the Kensington establishment had returned 
to its accustomed ways, he felt he was better apart. 

So now, when Miss Baillie referred to his lord- 
ship’s kindness, Arthur said nothing. 

“ It is not every gentleman who would care to be 
bothered by a boy of your age, you know, Arthur.” 

“No, and I am wondering what his reason was,” 
said the lad quietly. 

“ What should be his motive?” 

“I don’t like Lord Hardstock.” 

“ Then you are a most ungrateful boy. ”. 

Emily was very angry. “ I should not like him to 
know that all his trouble has been thrown away upon 
you." 

i6q 


CONSTANCE. 


l6l 


“I don’t care a straw whether he knows it or not. ” 

After this there was a slight cooling of Arthur’s 
devotion. Altogether, perhaps, he was not quite so 
sorry as he might have been when the term com- 
menced again. 

“ I want to see you. Be here nine sharp. ” So 
ran the little strip of paper over which Miss Baillie 
knitted her level brows. It was peremptory. It 
said as plainly as it could speak, “ It is for me 
to order and for you to obey.” And yet, because it 
came from Lord Hardstock, she never thought of 
complaining. The only thing that troubled her 
was, how she was to get away. 

Mrs. Strangways had restless nights, rarely sleep- 
ing until early morning, and Constance usually read 
aloud taher until half-past eight, when Miss Baillie 
would take her place and continue until ten, or even 
half-past. Sometimes the invalid would doze and 
then wake refreshed. 

Emily’s voice was sweet and monotonous. It 
more often lulled Rebecca to sleep than her sister’s 
clearer tones. 

How was she to escape the evening’s duty? “ It 
will look strange if I ask to go out, and I really can’t 
have a headache again: I have them periodically. 
Any one but Mrs. Armitage would have smelled a 
rat long ago.” 

“ My dear, is your throat painful ?” asked Constance, 
as they sat down to luncheon. Emily’s neck was 
encircled by a strip of red flannel. 

“ It is — I fear I am going to have a quinsey.” 

Constance was troubled. 

“You must have perfect rest,” she said. “I will , 
keep our little chatterbox with me this afternoon.” 

Miss Baillie kept her room and thoroughly en- 
joyed herself. At seven o’clock she put Eva to bed, 
and at half-past eight was equipped for her journey. 
She did not reach home till long past ten, and on 


IX 


i 62 


CONSTANCE. 


putting her latch-key into the door, found to her 
consternation that it would not turn. What in the 
world was she to do? There were lights in the 
drawing-room, so Mrs. Armitage was still up. 

“ I must trust to chance,” said Emily, as she raised 
the knocker and let it fall in a half-hearted way. 

In a couple of minutes steps came along the hall, 
and the chain was put down. The door opened a 
couple of inches, and Dyne’s forbidding-looking face 
peered forth. 

“Holy Virgin!” said she, and promptly shut it 
again. Emily could hear her pattering down the 
hall. 

At the end of her patience she pulled the bell 
violently, giving a loud rat-a-tat-tat at the same 
time. 

She was left waiting outside for the best part of 
five minutes, and then once more the door swung 
open. 

Emily was in the hall and running up the stair- 
case before Dyne realized what had happened. She 
caught hold of her cloak and tried to stop her. 

“ Poor little Miss Eva!” she gasped. 

“ What!” A great dread seized Emily. 

“That unlucky bairn!” Without much circum- 
locution Dyne told her tale. Eva, it appeared, had 
either woke up frightened, or had been walking in 
her sleep. At all events, she had fallen headlong 
down a flight of stairs, narrowly escaping fracturing 
her skull, and frightened her mother into a terrible 
state of fear and nervousness. Miss Baillie walked 
up to the nursery. On a low chair sat Mrs. Armi- 
tage with the child on her lap. 

“ Where have you been?” she asked sternly. 

“ My head ached so much, I thought the air would 
do me good; so I went for a walk.” 

“ Why did you lock your door?” 

“ I do not care that the servants should pry about 


CONSTANCE. 


163 


My drawers and boxes have been repeatedly opened 
and overhauled, and I now make a point of locking 
my door always. ” 

“ For the future, I must ask you to simply lock 
your drawers and boxes, and leave your door open. 
I consider it a very great liberty to have taken. ” 

Never had Emily seen Mrs. Armitage so seriously 
displeased. 

She was terribly discomposed, for his lordship 
had faithfully promised that in the early autumn he 
would redeem his promise and make her his wife, 
and it would anger him fearfully if she lost her home 
with Mrs. Armitage through her own shortcomings. 

So she rallied her forces, and exhibited an admir- 
ably feigned anxiety about her little pupil. 

“ My poor darling!” she cried. 

Eva looked up languidly. She lay very white 
and still on her mother’s bosom. 

“ Let me take her, dear Mrs. Armitage ; your arms 
must ache.” 

But Constance was not to be mollified. Emily 
had thrown back her cloak, and to her surprise Con- 
stance saw that she wore a dress cut slightly open at 
the neck, and had discarded the flannel wrap - she 
had worn at luncheon. 

“ I am glad to see that your throat is better,” she 
remarked. Emily colored vividly. 

“ I cannot think what is the matter with me,” she 
said; “it is very strange. First, my throat was 
swollen, and then the pain left it and went to my 
head. I felt almost 'distracted. You — you will not 
be angry at what has been purely accidental, I am 
sure? I have never neglected Eva for an instant. 
Indeed, I love her too well for that. But if ” 

It seemed to Constance that her grief was genuine, 
and her womanly heart was touched. 

“ If I have been hasty, you must forgive me,” she 
replied. “ I have been so' extremely anxious about 


164 


CONSTANCE. 


my darling that perhaps I have not made the allow- 
ances I should have done at any other time. You 
will admit that it did look strange, and appearances 
were somewhat against you : your door locked, and 
instead of being in bed, as you had given us to un- 
derstand, you out of doors.” 

“ And yet it can all be so easily explained.” 

“Yes, I am ready and willing to believe that. 
Now I think if you will help us, we had better carry 
Eva into my room. I will keep her with me al- 
together to-night. ” 

The child looked up gratefully into her mother’s 
face. With an ugly scowl Emily closed the door 
and went off to her own room. On the landing she 
met Dyne. 

“ Can I help you to pack, Miss?” 

“Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? 
What should I want to pack for at this time of night?” 

“Aren’t you going, then?” 

“Going! Stand aside! I can’t stay here talking 
to an old fool.” 

With this she stepped past Dyne, unlocked her 
door, and banged it sharply after her. 

“Wait awhile, my fine leddy! We’ll see which 
is the bigger of we two fules, by and by.” 

Little Eva was terribly shaken by her fall. The 
next morning Emily learned that Dr. Dale had been 
sent for, and that he was in the house when her own 
absence was discovered. She felt that some sort of 
explanation would have to be given him. 

In a becoming gown of soft fawn cashmere, she 
received the doctor. 

“All this is terrible!” she cooed. “I shall feel 
afraid to leave the house for the future, and be 
worrying myself the whole time lest an5Thing 
should be going wrong. ” 

“ It is a pity that you should make such late visits, 
don’t you think?” 


CONSTANCE. 165 

The significance in his tone warned Miss Baillie 
that she must be judicious. 

“ I was not feeling well,” she replied tersely, “ and 
so went out for a walk. I am at a loss to see why 
Dr. Dale should make it his province to dictate to 
me.” 

“ I should certainly not presume to dictate. I 
merely offered a suggestion.” 

“ Thank you. I am perfectly competent to con- 
duct my own affairs.” 

“ Emily!” 

“Oh! how funnily you say that!” cried Eva, from 
the sofa. Her eyes were fixed on her governess 
and the doctor, and she was drinking in every word. 
“ Emjjy !” She put her head on one side, and lisped 
forth in the most lachrymose tone imaginble. It 
was impossible not to laugh, and so the ice was 
broken, and gradually matters assumed a more 
friendly aspect. 

“But it was a near shave,” Emily told herself. 
“ Touch-and-go with Mrs. Armitage, and — all but 
— good-by to my solitary adorer.” 

The lesson was taken to heart. Emily paid no 
more evening visits to Lord Hardstock’s rooms, and 
that gentleman was considerably alarmed when he 
heard of the chapter of accidents. 

They must risk nothing more, he agreed. And 
so, once again, poor Emily was doomed to be parted 
from the man she loved. This time it was not so 
hard to bear. She felt sure — so very sure — that 
things were drawing to a climax, and that in a few 
short months she would be Lady Hardstock. It was 
well worth ^little sacrifice, she reflected with a sigh. 

It must have been two, or even three, days later 
when the thought suddenly occurred to her that she 
had not destroyed the little slip of paper which had 
fixed their last rendezvous^ and she grew somewhat 
uneasy when it was nowhere to be found. She could 


i66 


CONSTANCE. 


not have been so inconceivably careless as to have 
dropped it anywhere. Her heart beat thick and 
fast at the bare idea. She was positive that she had 
not torn it up, and it was not in her desk, or among 
her papers. Where, then, was it? It was long be- 
fore Miss Emily solved the knotty point. 

Going slowly downstairs after the insulting re- 
marks Miss Baillie had hurled at her, Dyne’s quick 
eye caught a gleam of something white. It was half 
a sheet of paper, and Emily had dropped it. 

Dyne had not long to wait. Revenge fell quickly 
to her hand, and she had been less than human-had 
she not rejoiced. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Mrs, Strangways went back to Clarges Street, 
accompanied by the faithful Dyne, and most un- 
feignedly glad was her husband. He had seen but 
little of her during her sojourn in Kensington, and, 
unattractive as Rebecca was in many ways, she 
possessed the admirable faculty of making the place 
where she dwelt “home.” Nothing was the same 
while she was absent. Mr. Strangways missed her 
at every turn. She suited him, and, depend upon it, 
that is the one thing essential to married life, A 
man soon grows tired of a pretty face, however 
pleasing. The eye accustoms itself to charms of 
person and expression, until they are no longer 
recognizable; but the woman who studies her hus- 
band’s tastes, and lays herself out to please him, 
binds him to her by the very closest of ties, and es- 
tablishes a claim upon him that will never be weak- 
ened. Nor is the reason far to seek: she appeals to 
the inherent selfishness of his nature, and in so doing 
wins his heart. He needs her, and learns to rely on 
her ready sympathy and companionship. She is 
his second self — part and parcel of his being — and he 
knows that she will never fail him. 

Something of this dawned upon Constance as she 
watched the meeting between husband and wife. 
Mr. Strangways had never been a demonstrative 
man, and after many years of married life rhapsodies 
would have been out of place ; but his eye rested on 
her with the tenderest devotion, and there was a 
settled look of contentment on his face that spoke 
more plainly than words could have done of his joy 
at her return. 


167 


i68 


CQNSTANCE. 


“That is a love any woman might be proud of 
winning,” Constance told herself. She sighed. 
Her own marriage had been such an utter failure, 
and she was more than half inclined to reproach 
herself for a good deal of the wretchedness. 

Then her thoughts centred themselves on Basil 
St. Quentin. What was the reason of his long si- 
lence. It was unlike him. Her lips quivered and 
her eyes filled with tears. “ I am a lonely woman, 
and I have no friends,” she reflected sadly. “The 
fault must be in myself, I fear. People do not take 
to me.” 

Slumbrous August had given place to golden Sep- 
tember, and that in its turn had waned, and October 
was now far advanced. Life flowed on uneventfully 
enough in Kensington. The anniversary of Cyril 
Armitage’s death came and passed. 

“ You will lighten your mourning, Constance? No 
one wears weeds longer than a twelvemonth,” re- 
marked Rebecca, wh^dearly loved to be correct in 
all things, even to the width of a hem or the stitching 
of a handkerchief. 

“Is it worth while?” Constance asked listlessly. 

“Of course it is,” briskly. “You ought not to 
wear crape a day longer. It rnakes you look older, 
I think. You are changed lately, somehow, and 
I believe you are thinner than you were.” 

Constance did not answer. She really felt no in- 
terest in her appearance or her personal adornment. 
She had never cared about dress, and now less than 
ever. 

“You are an odd woman,” said Rebecca, regard- 
ing her critically. “ Although we are sisters, and I 
may be presumed to know more about you than any- 
body else, you often puzzle me.” 

“I believe I am growing a regular old frump,” 
she said, with a laugh. “ The first time you go out, 
Rebecca, you shall drive me to Wimpole Street, and 


CONSTANCE. 169 

we will interview Madame Eugenie, and she shall 
make me a new dress.” 

Mrs. Strangways took great praise to herself that 
she had roused her sister to a proper regard for 
appearances. 

“ She just shuts herself up with that troublesome 
child, until, upon my word, there will be no getting 
her out of her shell at all presently. It is not good 
for her, and she shan’t do it, either. A young and 
pretty woman leading a nun’s life — it is unnatural. 
She has got into a morbid state, and wants shaking 
up, and I am just the proper person to do it.” 

But it was very difficult to persuade Mrs. Armi- 
tage to go into society. To please Rebecca, she 
accepted one or two invitations; but she was not 
happy. 

“I seem to have outlived all that sort of thing, ” 
she said to her sister. “ I had much rather have 
been at home with Eva.” % 

“ My dear Constance, every one seemed so pleased 
to see you, I don’t know what more you could ex- 
pect or wish for. ” 

So she yielded, and to please her sister accepted 
an invitation to dine at Dr. Froth eroe’s. And there 
she really did find amusement, and spent a pleasant 
evening. The kindly doctor scolded her for not 
having been to see them before. 

“ Eleanor would be so pleased if you would come 
sometimes,” he said. 

“Indeed, it is from no want of kindly feeling, 
either to you or your daughter,” returned Con- 
stance; “but West Kensington is a long way off, 
and I rarely pay visits, except to my sister.” 

“She ought not to be such a recluse,” said Re- 
becca, who had caught a word or two. “Talk to 
her, doctor. She is very obstinate, and will not 
listen to me.” 

“ Mrs. Strangways was always much fonder of so- 


170 


CONSTANCE. 


ciety than L Having lived so long in the country 
has something to do with it, I dare say ; but I con- 
fess I feel out of my element in crowded rooms,” 
smiled Constance. 

“ Come and dine quietly with us, sometimes, that 
is all I ask,” said the doctor. “ I can fully sympa- 
thize with your dislike of the form of entertainment 
one is invited to nowadays. Fuss and glitter do 
not commend themselves to me any more than to 
yourself. There is a hollow insincerity and love of 
display and show that is eminently distasteful ; but 
since you must eat your dinner somewhere, come 
and join us now and then.” 

“Thank you, I will.” Constance spoke heartily, 
and made up her mind to see more of the doctor and 
his daughter, for they were simple, unaffected folk, 
although Dr. Protheroe was a very popular man, and 
ranked high in his profession. 

Christmas was near at hand, when a letter from 
her brother-in-law upset all Mrs. Armitage’s plans. 
Gerald wrote begging that she would pay them a 
visit. Daphne had made some most undesirable ac- 
quaintances, and — “ I seem to have lost all influence 
over her,” he said. “You are the only person who 
can control and guide her. She would always listen 
to you. I dread to think what the consequences may 
be if this intimacy is not put an immediate stop to.” 
He mentioned no names, and Constance was quite 
in the clouds as to what was the nature of the dan- 
ger he apprehended. That it was very real, and 
might even be serious, she could not fail to glean 
from his urgent letter, and felt that if it could be pos- 
sibly arranged she ought togo. But it was awkward. 

Mrs. Strangways would be extremely annoyed. 
In an unlucky moment she had agreed to go to Clar- 
ges Street on Christmas Eve, and remain until after 
the New Year. Ever since she had made the prom- 
ise she had regretted it, for old Dyne had given her 


CONSTANCE. 


17I 

to understand that Lord Hardstock was to spend a few 
days there, and she felt that she had been cheated and 
tricked. Although, when she read her brother-in- 
law’s letter, she felt relieved that she had a legitimate 
excuse for breaking her engagement, she dreaded 
telling Rebecca. Rebecca had never been so non- 
plussed in her life. Indignation kept her tongue- 
tied. It was a good deal as Constance had guessed. 
She had, out of pity and compassion for Lord Hard- 
stock, invited him to remain over Christmas, and 
thus give him a chance to urge his suit. The dis- 
appointment and chagrin in store for him weighed 
heavily with her own annoyance. 

She could not accuse Constance of any wish to 
evade her hospitality, for she had seen a part of Mr. 
Armitage’s letter, and knew that it was bona fide 
enough. Besides, Mrs. Armitage had never con- 
descended to those little meannesses. She would 
have said“ No” in so many words had she not wished 
to go. Mrs. Strangways never supposed for an in- 
stant that Dyne had betrayed her plans in reference 
to Lord Hardstock. There was nothing to be done 
but to put a good face on the matter. 

“ I do think it is too bad,” she cried indignantly. 
“ So near to Christmas, and when everything was 
settled. It is a horrible time of year for travelling, 
but Gerald never thinks of that. He is far too en- 
grossed with his own selfish wishes to remember 
your comfort. Why on earth did he marry that lit- 
tle Will-o’-the-Wisp if he hasn’t got sense enough 
to exert some sort of authority over her? I call it 
rank folly to go over to Paris; but of course you 
will please yourself, Constance.” Yes, Constance 
would do that, and she elected to go. 

One thing she did ask at Rebecca’s hands. “ Poor 
little Eva will be so dull and lonely without me ; 
will you let her and Miss Baillie come for a few 
days?” she said. 


172 


CONSTANCE. 


With somewhat mixed feelings, Emily found that 
it was arranged they were to go to Clarges Street on 
Tuesday night and remain until Saturday or Mon- 
day. At first she felt inclined to refuse, or to take a 
holiday on her own account where she would be free 
to do as she liked, and might see more of her lover 
than she could hope to do in Clarges Street; but 
Eva confided the fact that Lord Hardstock was going 
to stop at Auntie Becky’s — he had told her so, and 
promised to show her some juggling tricks. After 
that, Emily came to the conclusion that her wiser 
course was to go to Mrs. Strangways. 

So she listened to Mrs. Armitage’s instructions 
about what Eva was to wear, and received her orders 
respecting the servants amicably enough, and even 
offered to help Constance to pack — an attention 
which was refused. 

This time she sent no friendly little missive to her 
old friend, to prepare him for her coming visit. 

But she knew that she would see him, and the 
knowledge brought a glow about her heart and a 
vSpringiness to her step, and sent her with a sort of 
suppressed excitement and eagerness to make her 
preparations. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


Perhaps Daphne was not quite so cordial in her 
welcome as on the last occasion of her sister-in-law’s 
visit. 

She did not know until the last moment that Con- 
stance was coming. Gerald was nervously afraid 
that she would guess what had brought his sister. 
Let wilful Daphne once suspect that she had come 
to further Gerald’s schemes, and separate her from 
new friends, and there would be war to the knife. 

However, Daphne did not suspect any double deal- 
ing. She merely looked upon it as an awkward 
coincidence that Constance should have elected to 
come to Paris just now when, as she herself ex- 
pressed it, she “was having such a jolly time of it.” 
Madame de Maupas was a young widow, living on 
the Rue St. Honore, not overloaded with means, and 
spending every penny of her income on dress and 
amusement. The little menage consisted of three 
persons: Madame de Maupas herself, her half-sister 
Angele, and Monsieur Raoul, her brother- in -lay^ — 
an extremely attractive and fascinating young 
Frenchman. He it was who threatened to prove 
dangerous to Mr. Armitage’s peace of mind. 
Daphne had made acquaintance with the trio at the 
house of the English clergyman, and there was 
hardly a day that she did not pay a visit to the Rue 
St. Honore. 

Mr. Armitage attached no importance to it at 
first. Daphne must have friends, and although 
Madame de Maupas was not exactly the type of 
woman he would have chosen as a companion for her, 
there was not much to cavil at. A little loud, per- 
173 


174 


CONSTANCE. 


haps; she laughed too frequently, and showed her 
dazzling white teeth, and she had many mannerisms 
which he considered objectionable; but still, meet- 
ing her as they had done at Mr. St. John’s, she must 
of necessity be irreproachable. Little did he sus- 
pect that that afternoon was .the sole occasion on 
which Madame de Maupas had crossed Mr. St, John’s 
threshold, and that they knew nothing whatever 
about her or her antecedents. 

It was not until nearly a month later that, coming 
home somewhat unexpectedly in the forenoon, he 
found his wife singing duets with an extremely 
handsome young Frenchman, and learned for the 
first time that Madame de Maupas had a brother- 
in-law. Daphne tossed her head rebelliously when 
questioned as to her reticence in the matter. 

“ If this young man lives with Madame de Mau- 
pas, you must have seen him constantly?” 

“ Of course I have. How foolish you are ! Am I 
never to speak to a man?” 

“ I must say I cannot understand why you have 
never mentioned him before. ” 

“ Oh, what does it signify? I suppose I did not 
give it a thought.” 

The air of profound indifference she displayed 
strengthened his conviction, and when he found she 
was running round to Madame de Maupas’ on every 
possible occasion he began to grow most uneasy. 
To his hints that he did not approve of her intimacy 
with Madame de Maupas, she remained mute, and, 
when at last he forbade her to go so often to the Rue 
St. Honore, she burst into tears and sulked for three 
days. 

Espio7iage in any form was distasteful to him. He 
could not possibly stoop to watch his wife. He had 
given his orders most imperatively, and would only 
hope that she would obey them; but he could ex- 
tract no promise from her to that effect. 


CONSTANCE. 


175 


“They are my friends,” she sobbed passionately. 
“ I do not see why I am to be prevented from going 
to see them.” And when, thinking to please her, 
he bought her tickets for the theatre, she flung them 
into the fire. 

Just at first she was awed into submission, for Ger- 
ald declared that if she did not break off her con- 
nection with these people he should take her from 
Paris into the country, where she would see no one. 

“I should run away,” she flashed out. “I will 
never, never live in the country.” 

“ Daphne, can you really be the same loving girl 
I married?” The grave rebuke in his tone wakened 
a little remorse within her. Her bosom heaved, and 
the drops gathered and ran down her cheeks. 

“You are always so cross, ” she cried. “You are 
not a bit the same as you used to be, either. If I 
am changed, you have changed still more. ” 

When he did not speak, wondering in what words 
he could assure her how dear she was to him still, 
and beg of her to act as he would have her, she sud- 
denly ran out of the room and into her own, and 
locked the door against him. 

But now that Constance had come, all would be 
well. Her advice was what poor Daphne needed, 
and she would certainly be swayed by it. But it 
promised to be more difficult than either of them 
had anticipated. 

Daphne made not the slightest reference in any 
way to her new friends, and as Constance was sup- 
posed to be in ignorance of their existence, she could 
not broach the subject. Mr. Armitage bethought 
him of a plan that would at once mollify his wife 
and afford an introduction to his bite 7ioir. 

“ Daphne, ” he said, as they sat at dinner a day or 
two after Mrs. Armitage’s arrival, “we will have a 
musical evening, if you like, while Constance is 
here.” 


176 


CONSTANCE. 


“We know no one who sings or plays,” she de- 
murred. 

“ Nonsense — that young de Maupas — surely he 
sings?” 

“ Oh ! yes ; but I thought you objected to the whole 
family?” said Daphne, raising her eyebrows and 
looking mildly astonished. 

Gerald was conscious of some little inconsistency. 

“ I do not object to an ordinary acquaintance, dear, 
only to an inordinate intimacy. ” 

“Oh!” cried Daphne, folding her arms demurely. 
“ Will you tell me where one ends and the other be- 
gins?” she added, and Constance was surprised to 
hear the pert tone she adopted. 

“Now, Constance,” she said, appealing to her sis- 
ter-in-law, “you shall be umpire; we will abide by 
your verdict. You are a woman of the world, which 
Gerald is kind enough to say that I am not. How 
often may friends see each other and steer clear of — 
what is it — ‘inordinate intimacy ’?” 

“ Really, I don’t think I could say without a close 
acquaintance with the subject under discussion. 
Who are the friends. Daphne?” She had now led 
up to the point, and as Gerald took the earliest op- 
portunity of slipping from the room, there was no 
restraint upon Daphne’s eloquence. 

“ Who is Madame de Maupas?” 

“Who is she? A lady. She has no profession 
that I am aware of,” she answered flippantly. 

“ What is her brother?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“ They all speak English, I suppose?” 

“Oh! yes; I don’t know where I should be if they 
didn’t. Everybody talk^s so fast in French; I can’t 
make out what they say. At school they spoke 
slowly and properly, and then it was quite easy.” 

For a full half an hour Daphne rattled on — 
Madame de Maupas was charming — so very full of 


CONSTANCE. 1 77 

fun — like a girl. And Angble? — yes, she was pleas- 
ant, too ; but not to be compared with her sister. 

“And Monsieur Raoul?” asked Constance tenta- 
tively, “is he enamoured of Mademoiselle AngMe?” 

Daphne looked down with a confused smile on her 
face. 

“ Now what put that into your head, I wonder? 
No; most certainly not. Nothing would please An- 
gMe better.” 

“ He is as charming as the others, I conclude?” 

“You shall see him and judge for yourself,” 
laughed Daphne, who was not to be cajoled into 
airing her opinions too openly. 

“The hateful trio,” as Gerald dubbed them, duly 
arrived on the following Thursday evening, and 
Daphne, in a bewildering costume of rose pink and 
creamy lace, fluttered about in a state of excitement. 

There was no repose about Daphne; she was ab- 
solutely unable to remain quiescent for any length 
of time. To-night it seemed to Constance that there 
was a repressed fervor and nervousness about her 
that was unusual. She hardly addressed a word to 
Raoul de Maupas, which in itself was a bad sign, 
but once Constance intercepted a look between them 
that seemed to imply a thorough understanding. 
Three or four guests had arrived, besides the de 
Maupas, when the door opened once more, and to 
her unbounded amazement Constance found herself 
in the presence of Basil St. Quentin. 

Daphne’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Ah!” 
she said, “ don’t say that I can’t keep a secret. Ger- 
ald invited Mr. St. Quentin yesterday, and we wanted 
to surprise you.” 

It was a surprise, and not altogether a pleasant 
one. By and by the young man found his way to 
her side. 

“When did you come to Paris?” he asked easily. 

She answered in a tone as indifferent as his own, 
12 


178 


CONSTANCE. 


but all the time she was asking herself misera- 
bly: “What have I done that he should so change 
toward me?” 

“ Are you making a long stay?” 

“About a fortnight, I imagine.” Then he asked 
if the journey had been rough and unpleasant, and 
other questions of a like nature, altogether trivial 
and unimportant, until poor Constance felt relieved 
to see Madame de Maupas open the piano and sweep 
her jewelled hands over the keys. 

Madame de Maupas was what is commonly known 
as “a fine woman.” She was a woman with a pres- 
ence — tall, dark, and large-boned. Every thing 
about her was big — great widely open eyes, big smil- 
ing mouth, and her voice was of extraordinary com- 
pass and volume. 

How she thumped the keys! How her hands flew 
up, and down, from bass to treble, from treble to 
bass! With what energy she pressed down the 
pedal, and what clinking and jingling her many 
bracelets made the while ! It was appalling. 

She sang a French song, which was pretty enough 
in its way, and when she had pounded out the last 
note she rose from her seat with the air of one who 
had done her duty — and done it nobly, too. 

Raoul took her place, and Constance was bound 
to confess that, whatever his shortcomings might be, 
he was an admirable musician. He had a rich tenor 
voice, and he understood the art of singing. Unlike 
his sister-in-law, he selected an English ballad, and 
sang it remarkably well. It was a plaintive little 
ditty, and it told of two lovers whose hard fate it 
was to part. Daphne sat very still, her hands loosely 
folded before her, and her lips parted. Her eyes 
never left the face of the singer. But when he rose 
she gave herself a petulant shake. 

“Too sad,” she cried. “Who will give us some- 
thing gay? We shall all have the blues.” 


CONSTANCE. 


179 


After that there was more singing, one or two 
showy pieces rattled off by Madame de Maupas’ en- 
ergetic fingers, and a dreamy waltz exquisitely 
played by Raoul. 

Constance told herself there was no doubt about it. 
Monsieur Raoul de Maupas was a very dangerous 
acquaintance for a girl of Daphne’s temperament. 
He was just the type of a man to appeal to her. 

Beyond those few conventional phrases, Basil St. 
Quentin hardly addressed Constance. He chattered 
to his hostess, after which he devoted himself to 
AngMe Riviere, who accepted his attentions gra- 
ciously. She was the exact opposite of her half- 
sister, being short and thin, with the wasp-like 
waist and narrow shoulders of the true French- 
woman. Her face was long and narrow, and her 
brow and chin receded. She had not the smallest 
pretensions to beauty, and yet her face was a pleas- 
ant one, relieved by a very winning smile. Long 
before that evening came to an end, Mrs. Armitage 
had gauged the depths of the shallow mind, and 
ferretted out poor Angele’s secret. She was madly 
in love with Raoul. 

“ And he appears to be unconscious of her very 
existence. What an unsatisfactory world this, is to 
be sure, with its round holes and square pegs!” 
thought Constance, who had a fellow-feeling just 
then for Miss Riviere. With a cool shake of the 
hand, and not the slightest intimation of another 
visit, Mr. St. Quentin got himself away betimes — 
long before Madame de Maupas’ party thought of 
taking their leave. Daphne looked after him won- 
deringly. 

“ I should like to know if it is true what we have 
heard,” she said, somewhat eagerly to Constance: 
“ about Mr. St. Quentin, I mean. They say he has 
been jilted. He does look down in the mouth, 1 
must say — don’t you think so?” 


i8o 


CONSTANCE. 


“He is very much the same as usual, I fancy.” 
Even Constance had to resort to “ a wee white lie” 
on occasion. Constance was disappointed, and dis- 
gusted, and hurt, and incensed. She tried to per- 
suade herself that what Mr. St. Quentin might say 
or do was of no moment to her — that she did not 
care. She reasoned with herself, scolded herself 
for her folly, and argued ; then at last broke down, 
and wept such tears as for many long months she 
had been a stranger to. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


“ I CAN quite understand your feeling of uneasiness 
' as to Daphne’s intimacy with the de Maupas family,” 
said Constance to her brother-in-law ; “ but I do not 
see how it is to be avoided unless you leave Paris 
for a time. That would make a break. ” 

“ Daphne declares she will not go. I have already 
suggested it. ” 

“ My dear Gerald, if you make up your mind, she 
will be obliged to go. ” 

“ And what sort of a life do you suppose I should 
lead?” Mr. Armitage spoke half comically, half in 
real earnest. “ I don’t think you have the slightest 
idea what Daphne” can be when she is crossed or 
thwarted. I suppose you would not take her back 
to London with you?” he asked, with considerable 
hesitation. 

“ Frankly, no ; I would rather not. ” 

Mr. Armitage sighed. “ What do you advise, Con- 
stance?” 

“ I think that if you could take a trip to Monte 
Carlo, or to Cannes, or to some cheerful place where 
she would enjoy herself, she would soon forget her 
acquaintances here; but I do not counsel you to bury 
her in a little country place. In my opinion it would 
be rank folly. Interest her, amuse her, give her so 
much to occupy her thoughts that she has no leisure 
to look back. That is my advice.” 

“ I will act upon it. I have been very, very anx- 
ious , Constance. There has been a lack of candor 
and straightforwardness throughout the wholes aifair 
that I can only account for in one way. Daphne 

i8i 


CONSTANCE. 


I§2 

did not wish me to know how pleasant the intimacy 
had become.” 

“ I do not think much harm has been done,” said 
Constance, with an attempt at consolation. “ I 
am quite certain that at heart she loves you 
dearly.” 

He shook his head. He was by no means so well 
assured. 

When Christmas and the Jour de V An were over, 
Constance fixed an early day for return. Not even 
to herself dare she confess how cruelly hurt she was 
at Basil St. Quentin’s studied coldness and neglect. 
He had not even answered an invitation which 
Daphne sent him for the last night of the old year, 
nor had he sent a single greeting for happiness in 
the new. She could no longer persuade herself that 
it was accidental. For some reason, he wished and 
intended to avoid her. 

Calling at Madame de Maupas’ with Daphne, she 
heard that he had been to the ’Rue St. Honore on 
the preceding day. He had leisure, then, to pay 
visits to strangers! Constance felt wounded to the 
quick. She longed to go back to London, and as 
Daphne had taken kindly to the Monte Carlo project, 
there was nothing to keep her longer in Paris. A 
letter from Rebecca put the finishing stroke to her 
discomfiture. 

Miss Baillie had disappeared. For no reason what- 
ever, so far as Mrs. Strangways knew. She simply 
walked out of the house, having packed her box the 
night before, and taking only a small handbag with 
her. 

“Oh, dear!” sighed Constance, “she is so terribly 
thin-skinned that all unwittingly Rebecca may have 
given her offence. I must go back at once. I wish 
I had never left home ! ” 

It really did seem as if her journey had been pro- 
ductive of but small results, although Gerald Armi- 


CONSTANCE. 183 

tage warmly pressed her hand at parting, and declared 
that she was his good angel. 

To return to London and Clarges Street. Full of 
glad anticipations, Emily made her preparations, 
and arrived with Eva early on the day appointed. 

Mrs. Strangways was not at home, and there was 
only Dyne to do the honors. 

Eva flung her arms rapturously round the old 
woman’s neck. 

“ Now you’ll have to tell me a fairy tale every 
single night, and two on Christmas Eve,” said she. 

Dyne promised that she would. 

“ Lord Hardstock is going to show me how to cook 
an egg in his hat, and draw yards of ribbon out of 
a lighted candle. Won’t it be beautiful?” 

“ Yes, miss.” Dyne screwed up her face and took 
a quick glance at Miss Baillie out of the corner of 
her eye. 

“ Is his lordship expected. Dyne?” 

It would have been more prudent to keep silent, 
but it was beyond Emily. With all her heart, she 
was longing to have all her glad anticipations con- 
firmed. 

“ I believe so, miss.” 

Then it was true — really true. The color flew 
to her face, and she turned aside ; not so quickly but 
that Dyne saw it. 

“ Surely, she’s never a-setting her cap in that quar- 
ter,” the old woman said to herself. “But there, 
she’s got brass enough in that face of hers to make 
a kettle, and cheek enough to fill it. The saints 
preserve us! Who does she think she is, I won- 
der?” 

Emily’s joy was short-lived. The day before 
Christmas Eve Mr. Strangways said carelessly to his 
wife: 

“ By-the-bye, Rebecca, I quite forgot to give you a 


184 


CONSTANCE. 


note from Lord Hardstock. He is prevented from 
coming to us to-morrow.” 

“Ah! precisely what I expected.” Mrs. Strang- 
ways’ tone was significant. “ What did I tell you, 
my dear? I knew he would not come. ” 

Eva at this moment created a diversion by melting 
into tears. 

“ He promised to show me ” she began pit- 

eously, but her uncle patted her head kindly, and told 
her he was much more wonderful than his lordship, 
and would entertain her himself. Nobody paid any 
attention to Emily, for which she was thankful, 
feeling as she did that she had grown ghastly white. 

Later on, as she sat in her own room, she told her- 
self miserably that her lover must have known that 
she was in Clarges Street, and that it was a positive 
insult to act as he was doing. She would like to 
have rushed off in search of him, and if she had been 
at home it is probable she would have done so ; but 
as a guest at Mrs. Strangways’ house it was not 
possible. Christmas Day came and went, and any- 
thing more dreary poor Emily never experienced. 

Emily’s piteous little letter to Lord Hardstock re- 
mained unanswered. He had not even considered it 
necessary to send her a card of greeting, although 
Mrs. Strangways and Eva each received one. Emily 
was growing desperate. 

Three or four days passed by, and at length she 
hinted that she was desirous of paying a visit to 
friends at a distance. If not inconvenient, she would 
like to leave Clarges Street about four o’clock on the 
following afternoon. 

“And you must forgive me if I am a little late,” 
she murmured, with a winning smile. “ It is such a 
terrible distance to Richmond, and my friends have 
no spare room, or I would remain all night.” Of 
course, Mrs. Strangways said it was of ^no conse- 
quence, and Emily departed the next afternoon. 


CONSTANCE. 


185 


Although Emily left Clarges Street at an orthodox 
hour, she knew far too much about Lord Hardstock’s 
habits to expect to find him at his chambers until 
very much later, so she frittered the time away in 
sundry small shoppings. It was close upon eight 
o’clock when at length she found herself on the 
familiar staircase, and her heart thumped against 
her side as she ran lightly up. She knocked again 
and again, but there was no reply. As once before, 
so now, she stooped down to raise the mat, but no 
key was there. 

Then Emily pulled a letter out of her pocket, tore 
off a half sheet, and scribbled a word or two on it: 
“ I shall be back in an hour. I must see you.” 

This she dropped into the letter-box, and went 
wearily downstairs. 

“I must have some dinner, and if he comes in 
again before I return he will find what I have written 
and wait for me,” she reflected. Hailing a hansom, 
she had herself driven to a quiet little restaurant 
she knew of, where, despite her uneasiness, she 
managed to make a very substantial meal, includ- 
ing a pint of champagne, and drank every drop 
of it. 

Then she returned to the Albany. The door was 
still shut, and everything looked precisely as when 
she left, only that the mat was a trifle askew, and 
the impromptu note she had put in the box had been 
removed. With renewed hope she knocked loudly, 
pressing her finger to the electric bell at the same 
time. All was as silent as the grave, and as unre- 
sponsive. 

It could not be possible that he had been and gone, 
disregarding her communication ! Emily paced up 
and down the narrow passage in a white heat of rage 
If it were so, she would never forgive him — never! 
Even a worm will turn, and Emily felt that her 
patience had reached its utmost limits. As she 


i86 


CONSTANCE. 


passed, her eyes rivetted on the door, from within 
came the unmistakable sound of a yawn — partially 
smothered. 

He was there ! And he did not intend to see her ! 
It was some little time before the full Jcnowledge of 
this dawned upon her. Her hand was raised to the 
knocker to emphasize the fact that she was waiting, 
and knew that her lover was lying low; then it 
dropped at her side, and with a face grown old and 
haggard she went slowly down the staircase and out 
into the street. 

Miss Baillie was back in Clarges Street by half- 
past ten, and retired at once to her room, being seen 
by no one, and by early daybreak she was gone. 
Her bed, had not been slept in, her box was packed 
and strapped, and the only articles missing were a 
hand-bag and a long cloak. 

“ My dear, you know as much as I do,” said Mrs. 
Strangways to her sister. “ I must say, the whole 
thing is extraordinary ; but we shall probably have 
a solution of the problem before long. You had 
better make up your mind to remain here for a day 
or two.” 

Constance was glad to do so. Her brain was in a 
whirl. What in the world could have induced Miss 
Baillie to act so strangely? She could only fall back 
on her old surmises. Rebecca must have given her 
offence in some way. But why had Emily not com- 
municated with her? This she could, and should 
have, done. Eva had been left in her charge, and 
Mrs. Armitage could not but feel that she had grossly 
neglected her duties. 

She passed a restless night. She came down to 
breakfast looking pale and ill, and Rebecca per- 
suaded her to go into the drawing-room and lie down 
for an hour or two. She had hardly been there ten 
minutes when the door-bell rang, and, to her great 
annoyance, Lord Hardstock was ushered in. 


CONSTANCE. 187 

“ I am resting,” said Constance simply, as she held 
out her hand. 

“Oh! done up with your journey,” replied his 
lordship pleasantly. “ I did not know you were 
expected home until the beginning of next 
week.” 

“ I intended coming back on Tuesday, but this 
flight of Miss Baillie’s necessitated an immediate 
return.” 

“What do you mean?” Evidently this was the 
first intimation Lord Hardstock had had of Emily’s 
disappearance. 

Briefly, Mrs. Armitage recapitulated events. “We 
cannot imagine why she went, or where she has 
gone,” said she. “I tried to make her so happy, 
and the whole thing troubles me more than I can 
say.” 

Lord Hardstock contemplated the elaborate pat- 
tern of fern leaves on a fawn-colored ground, with 
which Mrs. Strangway’s drawing-room was carpeted, 
for several minutes before he spoke. Then he 
cleared his throat, screwed up his courage, and took 
a desperate plunge. 

“ It is vexatious in the extreme. You might, at 
least, have looked for common civility, if it was ask- 
ing too much of human nature to expect gratitude. 
Constance, you ought to have some one to fight your 
battles for you, to protect your interests, to take a 
portion of the load off your shoulders. Will you 
give me the right to love and care for you?” 

It had come at last, as she had always known it 
must come some day. Thoroughly unnerved and 
really suffering, she was perilously on the verge of 
tears. But she tried to smile and make her rejection 
of his offer as gracious as she could — to wrap the 
pill in silver and present it as much in the form of a 
bon-bon as possible. 

She told him she fully appreciated the compliment 


i88 


CONSTANCE. 


he paid her, and was grateful to him for his interest 
in her, but that what he urged was out of the ques- 
tion. 

“I shall never marry again,” she added. And 
she really meant what she said. 

Lord Hardstock fixed his eyes upon her scrutiniz- 
ing! y. 

“ Will you answer me one question — Is there any 
one else?” 

And with perfect truth Constance answered : 
“There is no one else.” 

“ No one you prefer to myself?” he persisted. 

“ That is not a fair question. No one whom I am 
likely to marry.” 

With that he had to be content. But the question 
did not end there. Since he had no rival to fear, 
what was there to prevent him gaining his ends? So 
he pleaded and argued, until Constance rose with 
an angry flush on her face. 

“ Please understand that my decision is irrev- 
ocable,” she said; “under no circumstances could I 
reconsider it. I have no wish to alter my condition, 
and prefer to remain single. ” 

He pushed his chair aside and faced her, a curious 
expression about his mouth wjiich puzzled Constance 
to decipher. 

“ I will never give up hope,” he said between his 
teeth, with dogged persistence. “ I believe in fate^ 
and I am assured that one day we shall come 
together.” 

“Never!” said Constance’s heart. Aloud, she 
said gently: 

“ At all events, in the mean time, I may be allowed 
to have a mind of my own?” 

He bowed. A minute later the door shut upon 
him, and Constance sank back on her sofa with a 
half laugh that was something like a sob. 


CONSTANCE. . 189 

“I am weak and foolish to-day,” she said, as she 
dried her eyes.^ 

But she was something more than that, though 
aJie would not acknowledge it to herself. She was 
proving herself a true woman, and no wiser than 
the rest of her sex. She was grieving over the de- 
fection of a man. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


Lord Hardstock had plenty of food for reflection, 
and to judge by his countenance his musings were 
not of the happiest. Constance’s rejection of his 
offer neither surprised nor disappointed him. He 
knew she did not love him, but he believed in the 
potency of the dropping water. He was riot in the 
least disheartened at the failure of the first attempt, 
and had both pluck and determination to try again 
and again ; but he was seriously discomposed at the 
news respecting Emily. Not a word had he received 
from her since the night she had been to his rooms. 
Where, then, was she, and what was she doing? 
The girl could not have been so foolish as to destroy 
herself? No, he put the notion out of his mind at 
once. She was too fond of the good things of this 
world — of life and its pleasures — too solicitous for 
her own comfort to do herself an injury. 

“I suppose I shall hear from her in time,” he 
thought. There was nothing to be done but wait. 
Was it possible that she was with Dr. Dale? He 
admired her — had actually proposed to her, or she 
said he had. 

Lord Hardstock drew along breath. That would 
prove the happiest solution of the mystery; but 
somehow his lordship felt rather doubtful. He got 
a directory, and copied out the doctor’s address in 
case he might require it. And when three or four 
days passed by, and still there was no news of the 
stray lamb, he went over to Kensington, boldly 
walked up to the surgery door, and rang the bell. 

Dr. Dale opened it himself, being in the act of 
190 


CONSTANCE. 


19I 

going out. Seeing a gentleman standing there, he 
at once asked him to come in. 

The two men stood facing each other. 

“He doesn’t look like a patient; what does he 
want?” was in the mind of one, while the other was 
telling himself that women were kittle cattle. Here 
was a splendid-looking fellow, whom any girl might 
be proud to love; and yet Emily had turned up her 
pretty little nose at him. 

“ I must apologize for taking up your time ; I — I 
presume you are Dr. Dale,” began Lord Hardstock, 
“ and I believe you were in attendance some time ago 
at Mrs. Armitage’s, and made the acquaintance of 
a young lady there — Miss Baillie?” 

“ Miss Baillie was my patient. ” Dr. Dale spoke 
haughtily. 

“ Precisely so. May I ask if you have seen or 
heard of her during the last fortnight?” 

“ No, I have not. I trust nothing is wrong?” 

“No — I hope not. The young lady left Clarges 
Street somewhat precipitately, and both Mrs. Strang- 
ways and Mrs. Armitage are much distressed about 
it.” 

“ I am addressing ■” Dr. Dale was not a man to 

beat about the bush. He intended to know who his 
visitor was, and what he had to do with Miss Baillie. 

“ My name is Hardstock. You may have heard 
of me. I have known Miss Baillie many years, and 
was instrumental in placing her with Mrs. Armitage. 
This rash step on her part makes it extremely awk- 
ward'for me. You are not able to help me, then?” 

Dr. Dale paused. “ I did not say that. I do not 
know where the young lady is, but I might — find 
out.” 

“ How the deuce can you do that?” wondered his 
lordship; but he bowed and looked grateful and 
pleased. 

Dr. Dale passed his hand over his brow, and re- 


192 


CONSTANCE. 


mained silent for some minutes ; then he motioned 
to a table on which were ink and papers. 

“ Kindly leave me your address. I will communi- 
cate with you if I have any information that may 
be of service.” 

A minute later Lord Hardstock took his departure. 

“ I have done it before. The question is — can I do 
it again?” 

Vivian Dale stood with both hands resting on the 
back of the chair his visitor had just vacated. He 
was in a hurry — that is to say, he had received a sum- 
mons ten minutes before to a case that was likely to 
prove a lengthy one, so he turned over a heap of 
books that lay on a side-table, and selecting one that 
served his purpose slipped it into his pocket, picked 
up his hat, and went out, locking the door behind 
him. 

In a stuffy little room at the top of a lodging-house 
in Arundel Street, and for which, nevertheless, she 
was asked an extortionate sum, by reason of its close 
vicinity to Piccadilly, Emily Baillie had taken up 
her residence. If Lord Hardstock, or Mrs. Armi- 
tage, or even keen-sighted little Eva, had passed her 
in the street, they would not have recognized her. 
An adept in the art of making-up, she had trans- 
formed herself into a portly, middle-aged woman, 
with a fringe of black curly hair, sundry lines about 
the corners of her eyes and mouth destroying all 
resemblance to her own physiognomy, with its fresh 
skin and soft curves. In a waterproof and a close- 
fitting black bonnet, no one would have noticed her; 
or, if they had, would have supposed her to be a 
little tradesman’s wife, and never given her a second 
glance. This was precisely what Emily wished and 
intended. Her suspicions were now fully roused. 
She believed that she was superseded in Lord Hard- 
stock’s affections, and resolved to find out by whom. 

For this purpose, she dogged his footsteps, and 


CONSTANCE. 


193 


watched him from early morn until late at night. 
It was an easy matter to do this, for he had not the 
faintest suspicion that he was being shadowed ; and, 
as he had no troublesome duns to evade, he hardly 
took the trouble to look about him. But at the end 
of the fourth day Emily was bound to acknowledge 
herself baffled. His lordship led a quiet, humdrum 
life, spending hours at his club, and strolling home 
usually about midnight. She could not find that he 
had any especial lady friends, certainly none that 
might prove fatal to her own peace of mind. It 
was strange. Emily began to think that she had 
acted rashly, and that it would be by no means easy 
to retrieve the step she had taken. She wished she 
had been more patient. 

Then she thought she would go up to Kensington, 
and discover if Mrs. Armitage had returned home. 
This she did, and soon made up her mind that Mrs. 
Armitage had come back, for there were now pale 
rose curtains up in the windows. Heartily wishing 
herself back in her old home, and bitterly regretting 
her folly, she walked down the opposite side of the 
street, feeling lonely and miserable enough. With 
her own hand she had severed the link that held her 
to the world in which her lover dwelt. vShe had only 
herself to thank for it. As she thought thus, a man 
coming in the opposite direction looked quickly into 
her face, passed, hesitated, scrutinized her more 
closely, turned and would have accosted her, but 
that she quickened her footsteps. 

It was Dr. Dale. He was puzzled. What on earth 
was there about this woman, evidently of the lower 
classes, to remind him of Emily Baillie? It was, 
absurd. And with a smile at his own folly he con- 
tinued his way. 

But Emily did not breathe freely until she was 
half a mile away. Then she got into an omnibus 
and went back to her room. 


13 


194 


CONSTANCE. 


“The game is up,” she told herself. “And now 
I must manage to wriggle out of the scrape I have 
got myself into as best I can.” She tore off her wig, 
removed sundry paddings and wires which had con- 
tributed to her bulky appearance, and put on the 
same dress in which she had left Clarges Street. 
Indeed, it was the only dress she had. Her trunk 
was in the cloak-room at Charing Cross. 

About eight o’clock she sallied forth, well wrapped 
in her cloak, and with a light veil over her bonnet, 
and within three-quarters of an hour she was standing 
outside Dr. Dale’s door. 

The doctor was very dissatisfied with the results 
of his second experiment in the hypnotic line. He 
had concentrated his thoughts upon Miss Baillie to 
the entire exclusion of everything else, but nothing 
had come of it. 

On this special evening he was idly smoking a 
cigar, having banished all thought of her from his 
mind, when lo ! the door opened, and he beheld her 
before him. There was something radically wrong 
about it! This was his first thought; his second 
an unfeigned delight at seeing the girl. “ Sit down, ” 
he said, “ and tell me why you ran away from Mrs. 
Strangways.” 

Emily stared, as well she might. 

“ Did not Mrs. Armitage tell you that I was nurs- 
ing a sick friend?” she asked sweetly. 

“ I have not seen Mrs. Armitage,” replied he. 

“ How, then, did you know I was away?” 

He told her of Lord Hardstock’s visit. Emily’s 
heart beat tumultuously. He was anxious about her 
— troubled! It was a good sign. 

She laughed merrily. “ It is too funny,” said she, 
“ that he should have come to you. Mrs. Armitage 
could have explained everything to him. I wrote 
to her as soon as I knew I should be detained, and 
told her the reason why. I shall go back in a day 


CONSTANCE. I95 

or two ; but I am really worn out. I have had no 
rest for several nights.” 

Dr. Dale never for a moment doubted the truth of 
what Emily said. Not a word did he say of his 
hypnotic experiment. He felt rather ashamed of 
himself, and was extremely glad that he had failed. 
Evidently Miss Baillie’s visit here to-night was 
entirely apart from any influence he might have 
over her. 

“ It was good of you to come and see me,” he said. 

She smiled. “ I have not many friends, and so I 
value those I have.” 

“ O Emily, if only I might be something nearer 
and dearer.” 

She shook her head, but she slid her hand into his ' 
and let it lie there. 

“ Make unto yourselves friends of the mammon 
of uprighteousness ” was counsel which Emily never 
disregarded. She was wise in her generation, and 
knew that “great things from little things arise.” 

Dr. Dale might be forgiven for leaning toward the 
belief that Emily might yet be induced to lend a 
ready ear to his wooing. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“If you please, ma’am, Miss Baillie is in the 
drawing-room. ” 

So astonished was Constance when this announce- 
ment was made, a day or two later, that she over- 
turned her basket, and to Eva’s delight left her em- 
ployed in picking up and restoring everything to its 
proper place while she went downstairs. 

She did not hold out her hand. She simply stood 
still and looked coldly on Emily. That young lady 
was not in the very least daunted by the frigidity of 
her reception. 

“ I am so sorry I could not come back before,” she 
murmured apologetically, “ but I needed rest myself 
after so much nursing. I — I fear you are feeling 
vexed with me, as you never answered my letter.” 

“Your letter! I have never received one line 
from you since you left my sister’s house in the 
ungracious manner you did. ” 

Emily gasped. “ Oh !” she said, and sat down hur- 
riedly. “ What must you have thought of me all 
this time?” 

“I hardly think you would care to hear.” Con- 
stance was still uuappeased. Somehow she did not 
believe in this plausible explanation of a missing 
letter. 

“ I can quite understand that it must have seemed 
strange,” said Emily; “but, dear Mrs. Armitage, 
you surely will not hold me accountable for what 
has been purely accidental. It has worried me 
immensely to be obliged to go as I did at a moment’s 
notice, but it was unavoidable. It is the first time 
I have paid a visit or asked for so much as a day’s 
zg6 


CONSTANCE. 


197 


holiday since I have been with you, and I certainly 
did not anticipate that you would bear any ill-feeling 
about it. ” 

“ Have you any objection to telling me where you 
have been to, and with whom?” asked Constance. 
She was slow to take offence, and the least sus- 
picious of women, but some instinctive sense warned 
her to be wary. 

Emily colored. “ I went to nurse a friend whom 
I found seriously ill at Richmond. If you do not 
believe what I am telling you, please be frank enough 
to say so, in which case I will at once pack my re- 
maining boxes and relieve you of my presence.” 

Mrs. Armitage took not the slightest notice of her 
evident annoyance. She was thinking deeply. 

“ Lord Hardstock told us that you had neither 
friends or relatives,” she said slowly. 

Emily rose without another word and walked delib- 
erately out of the room. She had gone upstairs to 
her own apartment to collect her possessions. 

“ What ought I to do?” Constance was terribly dis- 
composed. “ I am certain she is not telling the truth, 
and yet perhaps I have no right to question her 
thus closely. She conducts herself with perfect 
propriety under my roof. I don’t know how to act. 
I am used to her and she is useful. Then, too, Eva 
likes her. I wish I did, but I am afraid I don’t. 
Still, my personal likes and dislikes should not sway 
me much either way. 

As she sat there, uncertain and irresolute, there 
came the patter of small footsteps on the stairs, and 
a childish treble outside the door. “ Let me in, 
mamma.” 

It was Eva. Her eyes were big and round, and 
her baby face sorely distressed. 

“ She is going away — right away for always!” she 
burst forth, as she clambered into her mother’s lap. 
” Oh ! please make her stay. I will be good. ” 


198 


CONSTANCE. 


This settled the knotty point. Holding the child’s 
hand Mrs. Armitage went up to Miss Baillie’s room. 
The floor was strewn with articles of clothing, and 
before a big trunk knelt Emily. The moment she 
saw Eva and her mother she put her hands over her 
face and sobbed loudly. Constance’s heart smote 
her. How was she to know that the bright eyes 
were dry and tearless? 

She only saw that the girl was troubled, and with 
a few gracious words strove to put things straight 
again. 

“ But you do not trust me?” wailed the governess. 

For a second Mrs. Armitage hesitated. 

“ If I did not believe in you and have entire con- 
fldence in your integrity, I should not ask you, as I 
do now, tO'Stay with us.” 

“Yes. Oh! do stay,” pleaded Eva. 

And Emily caught the child in her arms and 
kissed her more affectionately than she had ever 
done before. Through her she had accomplished her 
purpose, and she was not ungrateful. - 

That evening Constance spent at Clarges Street, 
' and, of course, Rebecca was duly informed of the 
lost sheep’s return to the fold. 

The sisters were alone, Mr. Strangways being at 
a bachelor entertainment. 

“I don’t see what else I could have done,” said 
Constance. 

“ No; not if you believe her tale,” said Rebecca, 
her lip curling scornfully the while. “ You are very 
easily taken in, my dear. I am not, and perhaps if 
you knew as much as I do you would regret your 
leniency.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Well, I did not intend mentioning it if, as I sup- 
posed, we had seen the last of Miss Baillie ; but since 
she has chosen to return, I think I should be doing 
wrong in keeping it back from you. Miss Baillie 


CONSTANCE. 


199 


evidently had a lover, and was in the habit of meet- 
ing him constantly.” - 

Constance smiled. “ What a heinous offence! I 
suppose you are alluding to Dr. Dale?” 

“ I don’t know who the man was, or is, nor do I 
care two pins ; but I know this, that the night she was 
locked out and told you a trumped-up story about 
having a headache and going out for a breath of fresh 
air, she had been to see — him.” 

“ How on earth do you know anything about it?” 

Then Rebecca told how Dyne had found the scrap 
of paper which made the appointment, and produced 
from her purse the identical slip and laid it before 
her sister. 

“ If this is so, she is not a proper person to have 
the training of my child,” said Constance gravely. 
Truthful herself, she abominated anything like deceit 
in those about her. And then she glanced down at 
the little folded paper. 

Her face crimsoned hotly, and she pressed her lips 
tightly together. It was but a word or two, but she 
knew the writing well. 

“ If I close my doors on Emily Baillie, I shall also 
strike from my list of — acquaintances the name of 
Lord Hardstock,” she said, in a tone as cold as ice. 

Her sister looked at her in astonishment. 

“ If she has deceived us, so has he. There is not 
the shadow of doubt that that writing is his ; and if 
the foolish girl went to meet a man that night, that 
man was Lord Hardstock.” 

“Well, upon my word, I think you must have 
taken leave of your senses, Constance. What could 
Lord Hardstock want with her?” 

Constance shrugged her shoulders in a way in- 
tended to convey that that was a question beyond 
her capability to answer. 

“ I do not see any similarity, myself, about the 
writing,” she continued, wishing, now that it was 


20C 


CONSTANCE. 


too late, that she had kept her own counsel respect- 
ing Miss Baillie’s shortcomings. “How a sensible 
woman like yourself, Constance, can be so misled 
and prejudiced as you are against that unfortunate 
man I cannot comprehend. I know perfectly well, 
although you have not chosen to open your lips on 
the subject to me, that he proposed to you before you 
left here, and that you refused him, and how you 
can reconcile it to your conscience to wreck the noble 
life of a man as devoted to you as he is, and to blast 
the future and prospects of the children you profess 
to care so much for, I can’t conceive.” 

“ My children ! Surely in so serious a matter as a 
second marriage I may be allowed to consider my 
own feelings. ” 

Constance had grown very white, and a hard look 
came round the corners of her mouth. 

“You seem entirely to ignore or put aside your 
lack of means. They are young, it is true; but 
when Arthur comes to man’s estate, what will he 
think of his mother’s selfishness in robbing him 
a second time of his birthright! How cruel you 
can be!” 

“ Have you any idea what it is you are urging on 
me? I am to sacrifice myself — the whole of the life 
that lies before me — for the sake of wealth and com- 
petency in the years to come for my children! I 
would gladly lie down and die, if that could bring 
them happiness and prosperity. God knows, I love 
them better than myself ; but this thing is beyond 
me.” 

Rebecca was moved to pity. She had not meant 
to wound her sister. In her inmost heart she be- 
lieved that a marriage with Lord Hardstock would 
be the best thing for Constance’s peace and comfort; 
but as Constance herself felt so strongly about it, 
there was nothing more to be said. 

“ Of course, I can only judge of the expediency of 


CONSTANCE. 


201 


such a step, ” she said. “ I am speaSing as an out- 
sider, and one who, being wholly unprejudiced, sees 
both sides of the question. It is better that we 
should not-discuss it.” 

“Yes,” said Constance miserabl)^; “do not let us 
talk of it again. Not even for the sake of my darl- 
ings could I consent to marry Lord Hardstock. I 
had rather live in an attic in London than at Grey- 
stone — with him. ” 

And after that, greatly though Rebecca marvelled 
at and deplored the state of affairs, she would have 
been less than woman had she pressed the matter 
further. But the question as to what to do with Miss 
Baillie was not so easily disposed of. 

She had assumed a quiet, pensive air, which it 
would have been positively brutal to attack. She 
really was so inoffensive and diffident that Mrs. 
Armitage determined to allow the matter to drop. 
After all, she might be in error. It did seem im- 
probable that Lord Hardstock should meet her clan- 
destinely when, had his inclination prompted him to 
do so, he could have framed her life so differently 
for her. The more she thought of it the less likely 
it seemed. 

He had never exhibited any particular feeling for 
her. Looking back, Mrs. Armitage failed to recall 
a single occasion on which he had shown the faintest 
inclination for her presence. No, she was wrong. 
A similarity in the style of writing had led her astray. 
She blushed for her own suspicions, and was more 
gentle in her manner toward Emily. 

In consequence of measles having broken out in 
the school where Arthur was, he had not been home 
at Christmas time; but early in February he came 
for a fortnight’s holiday — noisy and boisterous, full 
of fun and life. 

Constance was glad to have him with her, although 
perhaps Eva was nearer to her mother’s heart. A 


202 


CONSTANCE. 


girl has so many more opportunities of creeping into 
that holy of holies than a boy. 

“My son is my son till he gets him a wife, 

But my daughter’s my daughter all her life.” 

Boys must go out into the busy world, away from 
the maternal shelter ; it is but fitting and natural that 
they should. They will contract fresh ties, and have 
pleasures and interests apart. But whatever joy 
comes into a gifBs life — its sunshine and its shadows, 
its cares and delights — must, to a great extent, be 
halved and shared. In her daughter’s life and love 
a mother lives again. She is one with her, rejoices 
for her, sympathizes with her, and would, if it were 
possible, suffer for her. 

Arthur would be all the better for a blow of fresh 
sea air. Dr. Dale declared, so, to his exceeding delight, 
he was sent to Brighton for a week. Constance 
intended to go with him, and devote herself to the 
lad, giving him as much pleasure as her slender 
purse could afford; but a day or two before she 
managed to sprain her ankle, which put a stop to all 
thought of leaving home. Miss Baillie would go in 
her place. 

“ It won’t be so jolly, mother,” grumbled the lad, 
as he rested his curly head against her shoulder. 

“ I thought you were so fond of Miss Baillie, dear ; 
you were her most devoted slave last holidays.” 

Arthur was silent. He could hardly account to 
himself for his altered views. Her beauty pleased 
him still. She was good to look at, and Arthur was 
his father’s son in that respect, and dearly loved a 
pretty face; but she was not to be depended on. 
Sometimes she was charming, and would let him do 
as he liked, without a dissenting word ; at others she 
would repulse him roughly. He was never sure of 
her moods and humors. 


CONSTANCE. 


203 


Still, Brighton with Miss Baillie would be pleasant 
enough. Eva was very lachrymose. Emily had 
become sincerely attached to her. There was some- 
thing very winsome about the child, and she had a 
habit of taking it for granted that every one loved 
her. The touch of the tender little arms had its 
effect, even upon Miss Baillie ’s world- worn passion- 
tossed heart. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


The day Miss Baillie and Arthur started for Brigh- 
ton Lord Hardstock called on Mrs. Armitage. 

He had still no news of Emily, and having seen 
nothing of Mrs. Strangways, had not the most remote 
idea that she had returned to Kensington. When 
Constance informed him of all that had occurred, he 
was to a certain extent relieved, although he scented 
mischief in the girl having left town without either 
seeing or communicating with him. Still, she was . 
under Mrs. Armitage’s roof again, and that was one 
point gained. 

“ You have not seen her, or heard from her, I sup- 
pose?” said Constance, a little significantly, he could 
not but think. 

“I?” Lord Hardstock spoke in a tone of the 
greatest surprise. “ My dear Mrs. Armitage, I never 
had a line from Miss Baillie in my life, so far as I 
remember.” 

“ Then ” Constance could never account for the 

impulse that made her draw out the slip of paper 
which Dyne had purloined, and place it before him. 

“ Then you did not send her that?” 

A dull red burnt on Rupert Hardstock ’s face as 
he scanned it. What fools women were! How 
rash! How superlatively careless! To think that 
Emily Baillie, of all women, should not have been 
more prudent. It was incredible! With the utmost 
sang-froid he turned to Constance. 

“I suppose it is a joke,” he said feebly, “but I 
confess I do not see the point.” 

“Did you, or did you not, write those words? I 
204 


CONSTANCE. 205 

think you will allow that I have the right to ask, as 
you yourself placed Miss Baillie here?” 

“ Unquestionably. No, Constance, on my word of 
honor as a gentleman — no! I hoped you did me 
more justice than to believe such a thing possible.” 

She was silent. “The writing is- similar to your 
own,” she said at last, half apologetically. 

“ Is it? I flattered myself I wrote a tolerably good 
hand.” He shrugged his shoulders. “However, I 
don’t care two pins about that. What I do care 
about is that you should think me capable of such 
ungentlemanly and dishonorable conduct. I feel I 
have not deserved it. And permit me to say that I 
find it curious that you should have treasured what, 
after all, is another’s property.” 

“ I do not think what I said implied anything of the 
sort ; it was not my intention to reflect upon you in 
anyway. But it having come to my knowledge that 
Miss Baillie was in the habit of meeting some one in 
a clandestine and underhanded manner — I — I ” 

Constance came to a full stop, conscious that she 
had floundered out of her depth. With the air 
of a martyr Lord Hardstock rose and held out his 
hand. 

“You are not going?” 

Against her will she said the words. She did not 
want him to stay. His presence annoyed and irri- 
tated her, and yet he was so evidently driven away 
by her own conduct that in common decency she 
had no choice.'^ It was forced upon her. 

“ I will say good-afternoon.” 

“ You are going because — because ” 

“Yes, because while you think of me as you do 
now it is impossible for me to do otherwise.” 

She bit her lip. 

“ Try and be just ; I ask nothing more than that. 
Justice! It is what the commonest criminal is 
accorded. Have I ever acted in such a manner as 


2o6 


CONSTANCE. 


would warrant you in supposing I could play that 
dastardly part you have tacitly accused me of?” 

“ I accused you of nothing.” 

“ Pardon me, but you did. You asked me if I 
were in the habit of making clandestine appointments 
with your governess. ” 

“ She certainly went to meet somebody.” 

“ I do not for a moment dispute that fact, but I 
do emphatically object to be suspected of being that 
somebody. ” Two minutes later the hall door shut 
upon him, and Constance stood where he had left 
her, uncertain whether to be vexed or relieved. For 
she knew that she had seriously offended Lord Hard- 
stock. 

“ My dear Constance, what could induce you to 
mention that affair of Miss Baillie’s to Lord Hard- 
stock?” cried her sister in a tone of the greatest con- 
sternation, a day or two later. “ Since you had 
decided to keep the girl in your house, the least you 
could do was to ignore any share he might have in 
her indiscretion.” 

“I don’t know what did prompt me to bring up 
the unlucky subject,” returned Constance wearily. 
“ I am very sorry that I did so.” 

” And so you ought to be. It is a poor return to 
make for the kindness and consideration Lord Hard- 
stock has always shown to you. But I suppose that 
is a point we shall never agree upon.” 

“ I have always acknowledged his goodness to me.” 
Constance’s tone was full of hurt pride. 

“Yes, in a half-hearted way — grudgingly. Most 
women would give their ears to stand in your 
shoes.” 

“ I wish they could. Why will men fall in love 
with the wrong people? It is very embarrassing.” 

“Now, Constance,” continued her sister, “I have 
too great a regard for Lord Hardstock to see him 
insulted. He feels this conduct on your part deeply. 


CONSTANCE. 207 

What are you going to do? The first advance must 
come from you.” 

“ Then it will never be made. Since Lord Hard- 
stock has chosen to take umbrage at what I cannot 
but consider a very natural inquiry, seeing that Miss 
Baillie forms one of my household, it is decidedly 
better that the matter should rest there. ” 

“You don’t mean to apologize?” 

Constance looked into her sister’s face and laughed. 

“ No,” said she. “ That I certainly have no inten- 
tion of doing. ” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Strangways, seeing her castles 
in the air respecting Constance’s future crumbling 
into ruins about her, “ I think you are behaving in 
the most unladylike and unchristian manner, and I 
would never have believed it of you. ” 

“Poor Rebecca! I have already been somewhat 
of a disappointment to you, haven’t I?” And she 
refused to pursue the question further. The most 
that she would yield was, that if Lord Hardstock 
chose to ignore what had passed, and call upon her 
again, she would resume her friendly relations with 
him. 

“ You did not even say that you believed what he 
told you,” said Rebecca angrily. 

“ Lord Hardstock denied the charge against him, 
‘as a gentleman and on his word of honor,’ so I 
hardly thought it was necessary. I had no choice 
but to accept his word. ” But she did not say that he 
had convinced her, and Rebecca inclined to the belief 
that she was sceptical still. 

So it fell out that, two days after Emily returned 
from Brighton, and Arthur had gone back to school, 
as they sat busily engaged on some needle-work for 
Eva — Miss Baillie and Mrs. Armitage together — the 
door opened, and Mrs. Strangways, accompanied by 
Lord Hardstock, walked in. 

Constance felt very nervous, but she tried to act 


2o8 


CONSTANCE. 


as if nothing had occurred. Mrs. Strangways was 
jubilant. She had contrived to tide over difficulties 
and bring these troublesome lovers into an amenable 
frame of mind. 

Presently she rose from her chair. “ I want to 
speak to you, Constance,” she said, and the sisters 
left the room together. 

The moment they were alone. Lord Hardstock 
drew nearer to Miss Baillie. 

“ Emliy,” he said .softly, “ what does all this mean?” 

The girl flung back her head defiantly, but an- 
swered never a word. 

“ Why are you treating me so unkindly? Do you 
know that I am very unhappy?” 

She laughed a little scornful laugh. 

There was a sound on the stairs of footsteps. His 
lordship hurriedly withdrew to his former seat. 

“ I have so much to say to you, my darling. Come 
and see me to-morrow evening. ” 

“ It is quite impossible. ” 

Emily’s heart was thumping away at a furious 
rate, but ice was not colder than her voice. 

“I want you, Emily, You can find it in you to 
refuse me?” 

She shook her head. 

“ Hush — they are just outside. ” 

“ I shall expect you, dearest. ” 

“ I will not come.” 

And that was the last word he had alone with her. 
Though he waited until ten o’clock on the following 
evening, Emily kept to her resolve. 

The next afternoon, Constance sat alone in her 
drawing-room. Eva was out with her governess. 
She had a book in hand, but she was not reading. 
She was thinking, and her thoughts were sad enough. 
The front door bell rang, but she paid no heed to it. 
She had but few visitors, and was expecting no 
one. So, when she heard some one ascending the 


CONSTANCE. 


209 


stairs, she looked round impatiently, wondering who 
the intruder might be. 

“Mr. St. Quentin!” 

So great was her surprise that Constance forgot 
to rise from her chair, and the young man was half 
across the floor before she struggled to her feet. 

“You will wonder what has brought me here?” 
he began in a halting fashion. 

“ Not at all. I am glad to see you.” 

Constance had recovered her composure, and was 
anxious to set her visitor at his ease. She could not 
but see his perturbation, and a certain nervousness 
that was wholly foreign to him. 

“ You have not been in London for a long time.” 

“ Yes ; I was here in November. ” 

“ And you did not take the trouble to come and 
see me?” was Constance’s outspoken thought. The 
reproach in her eyes was more than he could bear. 

“ For pity’s sake, listen,” he cried. “ I have been 
misled. I heard — I was told — that you were going 
to marry Lord Har^istock, and it almost broke my 
heart, Constance.” 

And after that there was a pause in which each 
could hear the quick breathing of the other. 

“ I only learned the truth yesterday, and — I am 
here. I could not live another minute away from 
you. I felt I must see you, and ask if — O Con- 
stance, I have no words in which to tell you my 
love. Looking back on the long years, it seems to 
me that I have loved you always, only I did not 
know it. You were always more to me than any 
other woman.” 

He was standing before her, with outstretched 
hands, eager, anxious, waiting for his answer. 
Slowly she was waking to consciousness of her love 
for him, and to the knowledge that life without him 
would be incomplete. And yet — she was afraid — 
she doubted. 

14 ... 


210 


CONSTANCE. 


“ It is all SO sudden, ” she said at last. 

“ But you love me, Constance?” 

“ I am not sure.” 

“ Take your own time, dear heart ! I can wait. 
Listen. I have dispatches for Constantinople. I 
may be there a month. Will you give me your an- 
swer when I return?” 

She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears. 

“ On April 5th, I shall be back in London, if all is 
well. Take till then to decide what our future is to 
be. I shall be at Morley’s Hotel on the evening of the 
fifth — let me find a letter from you waiting for me. ” 

“Yes^” she said, slowly. “I will.” 

“ And now, am I to go?” 

She was unnerved. It was only by the greatest 
effort that she could hold herself in check. He saw it. 

“Good-by,” he said. “I shall leave England to- 
morrow morning, but I carry a lighter heart with 
me. Some time I will tell you how miserable I have 
been.” He held her hand closely in his warm clasp, 
then dropped it and ran lightly down the stairs. 

Almost it seemed a dream. Constance flung her- 
self on the sofa, and buried her head in the cushions. 

How gray, how lonely her life had been an hour 
ago; now it was flooded with sunshine. Her sweet, 
shamed secret stood revealed, and she gloried in it. 

He loved her. Had loved her always. He wanted 
her to share his life, to live by his side, to be his wife ! 

It seemed too wonderful to be true. When at 
length she sat up and pushed the loose hair off her 
brow, she felt that the die was cast, and that the 
tangles would be smoothed out of her life, since it 
only remained with herself to utter the magical word 
which was to open the gates of Paradise to her. 

Her thoughts ran riot. She grew joyous, gay, 
young, as she allowed herself to yield to the pure 
womanly instinct within her, and to love even as 
she was loved. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


“ Miss Baillie’s been here, ma’am, a-asking me 
for some pattern you was so good as to say you’d 
lend her.” 

“ O Dyne, I meant to leave it out for her. How 
very stupid of me.” 

“She was just off to the dressmaker’s,” returned 
Dyne, in a tone that implied disbelief. 

Mrs. Strangways looked keenly at her. “ Well, 
and why should she not?” 

“Shall I take it to Miss Gordon’sfor her, ma’am?” 

“ No, I will send it on by post. ” 

“ What did she say about the love-letter I found?” 

Dyne had been boiling over with curiosity for 
weeks, and thought it rather hard that she should 
not be made acquainted with what had happened, 
since she had been instrumental in unmasking the 
young lady. 

“ I believe my sister decided not to mention it to 
her at all.” 

“ Humph!” It would be difficult to tell how dis- 
appointed Dyne felt. 

“You see there was nothing to prove that it even 
belonged to Miss Baillie, after all,” continued her 
mistress, “and even if it did, there might be a good 
and sufficient reason to account for it. ” 

“ Yes, and peas might grow on bramble bushes, but 
I never came across one that did. ” Dyne whisked 
herself out of the room in a very unamiable frame 
of mind. To her the whole thing was palpable. It 
allowed of no defence. And she was amazed and 
disgusted at Mrs. Armitage’s reticence on the matter, 

2H 


213 


'CONSTANCE. 


“ Maybe she’s on the lookout, and means to catch 
my lady tripping,” she thought, and found a crumb 
of comfort in the reflection. But Dyne was right. 
Emily had made the dressmaker an excuse for secur- 
ing a couple of hours to herself. 

No less than three letters had she received from 
Lord Hardstock urging the necessity of an inter- 
view. The handwriting on the envelopes was dis- 
guised, and the letters themselves were printed in 
schoolboy fashion. The last was so imperative that 
she felt compelled to yield. 

“It is of vital importance to yourself,” it ran, 
“that you should learn what has occurred, that you 
may be on your guard. Be here not later than five 
o’clock, so that you can be home by seven.” 

Emily schooled herself to wear a dignified, impres- 
sive demeanor, which she found it very difficult to 
keep up when her lover greeted her with the old 
warmth and tenderness. But she felt that the only 
tie between them was a purely physical one, and by 
that alone might she hope to bind him to her; and 
she would not so much as yield her lips to his caress. 

“ Now, you little rebel, give me an explanation of 
your extraordinary behavior of late.” 

“ Perhaps you will be so good as to inform me why 
you remained perdu here while I stood outside and 
knocked for admission ; why you never answered my 
letter ; and why you wished me to imagine you were 
out. ” 

Lord Hardsto'ck looked puzzled. 

Emily reiterated her complaint. 

“My dear child,” said he, “I found that note of 
yours in my letter-box at four o’clock the next after- 
noon on my return from Brighton. I was not even 
in town when you came, I assure you. ” 

“ I don’t believe a word of it. I heard you yawn 
as distinctly as I ever heard anything in my life. ” 

“It is extremely likely that you heard talking 


Constance. 213 

going on, for I was weak-minded enough to give the 
key of my rooms to a chum of mine. ” 

Was he speaking the truth? Perhaps! She was 
longing with all her heart to be able to believe him. 

“So that is why you have been so cross-grained, 
my child? Upon my word, you are a little goose. 
But, Emily, I have more cause to reproach you. 
How came you to be so careless as to drop any of my 
letters about?” 

The color faded from Emily’s cheeks. “ What do 
you mean?” she said hastily. 

“I gathered from Mrs. Armitage’s manner that 
she had not mentioned the subject to you,” continued 
Lord Hardstock. “ She appealed to me as the pri- 
mary sinner. ” 

He then told her exactly what had passed. Emily 
was very angry. 

“ I think she ought to have come direct to me, if 
she had any doubt about it,” she said. “ I will not 
stay there any longer, Rupert. It is unbearable. I 
have said soj before, but this time I mean it. We 
are no nearer to being married now than we were a 
year ago, and some understanding must be definitely 
arrived at between us. Do you intend to make me 
your wife?” 

“ You know I do ; but these matters are not arranged 
in a minute. I will tell you now why I have kept 
you waiting. The present tenants of Greystone are 
giving up the place in May, and I should like to make 
it our home for a year or two. ” 

Emily’s eyes blazed like stars. A soft red flushed 
her cheeks, and she leaned forward, the incarnation 
of passion and emotion. 

“ You are not trifling with me — you mean it?” 

“ I mean it.” 

God forgive him the lie. Emily choked down a sob. 

“At last! at last!” she was telling herself exult- 
antly. 


214 


CONSTANCE. 


“ Then it is settled. We will go down to Grey- 
stone and spend our honeymoon there?” 

“ Where you will — it is all one to me, if I be with 
you.” 

“Do anything but love; or if thou lovest, and art 
a woman, hide thy love from him whom thou dost 
worship. Never let him know how dear he is.” 

Poor Emily’s knowledge of the world and of the 
heart of man should have taught her wisdom; but 
in the bliss of attaining her desires she forgot all 
else, and spoke as she felt. 

“You will let me tell Mrs. Armitage?” she said 
by and by. 

“On no account. You seem to forget that I lied 
to her regarding that paper you lost. Your lips must 
be absolutely sealed so far as she is concerned. I 
do not think she would be a very sympathetic con- 
fidante, either.” 

“ She is changed. I am sure something has hap- 
pened to alter her whole life. She is younger, 
brighter; and, oh! she has such a beautiful look on 
her face sometimes. I am not given to gush about 
a woman, as you know, but I cannot help looking 
at her. I can tell you the very day I first noticed the 
difference — it was a week ago yesterday. We had 
been out, Eva and I, and the child stopped at the 
drawing-room door on the way upstairs. No one 
answered, so we went in. Mrs. Armitage sat on the 
sofa, with one hand shading her eyes. She caught 
Eva up in her arms and kissed her as I have never 
seen her do before — passionately — ^ regretfully, 
almost. It is no light thing would move her, be 
lieve me.” 

“ And what do you think it was, then?” 

Lord Hardstock tried torspeak indifferently, and 
succeeded so well that Emily saw nothing unusual 
about him. 

“ I think she has a lover. ” 


CONSTANCE. 215 

“Nonsense! Who in the world is there for her to 
fall in love with?” 

“Oh! I know something,” laughed Emily saucily. 
“ I know that some man visited her that afternoon 
— young, and not ill-looking, for Dr. Dale was pass- 
ing the door as he came out, and asked me point 
blank if he was an admirer of mine. ” 

“ And his name?” 

“ Ah, that I do not know. I dare say I could find 
out, but I’m not curious.” 

“ Emily, I am going to tell you something that may 
perhaps surprise you. I owe Mrs. Armitage a grudge. 
I hate her as I never hated a woman before, and if I 
could work her mischief I gladly would. Help me 
in this. Get to know who the man was who called 
at Kensington that afternoon.” 

Emily sat thinking. “ Why do you hate her?” she 
asked. 

“ I will tell you one day, not now. Will you do 
this for me?” 

“I will.” 

Shortly after this Miss Baillie went away. What 
Lord Hardstock had acknowledged with regard to 
Mrs. Armitage astonished her greatly. Constance 
was not a woman to stir up animosity and ill-feeling. 
She was too placid and colorless for that. What, 
then, could it be that had roused Rupert’s wrath 
against her? He was sincere enough in his expres- 
sions of ill-will. There was a look on his face and a 
scowl on his brow that were not to be mistaken. Was 
it connected with monetary matters^ She knew that 
owing to Mr. Armitage ’s sudden death Constance 
had been obliged to leave Greystone, and that Lord 
Hardstock held a mortgage on it. Being a woman, 
and the wife of his dead friend, it was likely that he 
had found it difficult to press for payment which 
might L»e in arrears. And so Emily settled the ques- 


2i6 


CONSTANCE. 


tion quite satisfactorily, and never came within a 
mile of the actual truth. 

But could she have ^een her lover pacing up and 
down his rooms, and heard the oaths he uttered as 
he struck out blindly in his impotent rage, she would 
most assuredly have realized that it was something 
of a greater import than money that was tugging 
at Lord Hardstock’s heart-strings — something that 
touched his soul more nearly than his pocket. With 
subtle instinct, he felt that he could supply the name 
of Constance’s visitor, and cursed the ill-luck that had 
brought him upon the scene again. 

Two days later he had a letter from Emily, and 
his worst fears were realized. Basil St. Quentin had 
been to Kensington. v 

The end of that week she wrote again : 

“ I am quite sure that my suspicions concerning Mrs. 
A. were correct. I purposely talked about Mr. St. Q. to 
the child, and by and by, when her mother came in, she 
said to her, ‘Mamma, where is Basil gone; he never 
comes now, does he?’ Mrs. A. flushed up, and looked 
quite pretty. ‘How strange that you should say that, 
my pet. He called here a day or two ago.’ ‘Is he 
coming again soon?’ asked Eva. ‘No, he has gone 
away many hundred miles. ’ ‘But he will come some 
day?’ ‘Yes — some day!’ echoed Mrs. A. I wish I could 
give you . any idea of the voice with which she said it. 
Half shy, half joyous, wholly different to any I ever 
heard her use before. You may say what you like; she 
is entirely changed, and changed for the better, too. 
She is more like other women. How did she vex you, 
Rupert? I should be sorry to work her harm ; she has 
been good to me. I never felt for her as I do now. 

I want just to tell her everything — about us, I mean. 
She would listen, and both understand and sympathize 
now; I know she would.” 

After this letter a very demon of rage possessed 
Lord Hardstock. Had St. Quentin proposed to her? 


CONSTANCE. 


11 ^ 

It looked like it. And if so, had she given him hope? 
She had not accepted him — of that he was assured, 
for in that case Mrs. Strangways would have been 
notified. Constance never did anything secretly. 
If she intended to marry again, she would speak of 
it quite frankly and openly. 

After pondering the matter for some length of 
time, he resolved to bring St. Quentin’s name on 
the tapis the very first time he was in Constance’s 
presence. It was nearly a fortnight later before an 
opportunity presented itself at the house of a mutual 
friend. Strolling in about six o’clock his lordship 
found a room full of visitors, and a babel of tongues. 
Under cover of the noise, he edged his way round 
to Mrs. Armitage’s chair. 

“ I hardly thought I should get here at all, to-day,” 
he confided to her. “ I have been bothered with 
neuralgia. I must go to a dentist, only I hardly 
know who to go to. There’s a fellow in Northumber- 
land Avenue, but I can’t recollect his name. I 
remember St. Quentin strongly recommended him. 
You don’t recollect who he was, do you?” 

The faintest tinge crept over Mrs. Armitage’s 
cheek — the veriest apology for a blush. Still, it was^ 
more emotion than she usually displayed. 

“ Really, I don’t know. Mr. Armitage may have 
advised Mr. St. Quentin to go to Mr. Airlie; we 
always employ him when anything is wrong. ” 

“ That will do, thanks. I must give him a look in. 
Always an unpleasant necessity going to one’s 
dentist, isn’t it? By the way, talking of Mr. St. 
Quentin, where is he now? I never hear you men- 
tion him.” 

There was no mistake about it now. Constance 
was evidently much embarrassed, and her eyes 
drooped consciously. 

“ He is in Constantinople, I believe.” 

“ Is he really? Queer sort of life those beggars 


2i8 


CONSTANCE. 


lead — ^Queen’s messengers and attaches. But I sup- 
pose he likes it. ” 

Mrs. Armitage made no reply. She rose with sus- 
picious alacrity to exchange a handshake with a lady 
friend, and at the earliest opportunity made her 
escape from the vicinity of her tormentor. 

“ Emily is right. Trust a woman to ferret out a 
secret.” Lord Hardstock set his teeth closely to- 
gether. “ There is something between them, and it 
means — mischief. ” 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


Dr. Dale was doing well in his profession — so 
well that Janet suggested they might move into a 
better neighborhood and a more commodious house ; 
but her brother ridiculed the idea. They were very 
comfortable; why change? Besides, he urged that 
the greater number of his patients resided in West 
Kensington, and it would therefore be the height of 
folly to go elsewhere. 

“ It always does a medical man harm to change his 
address,” he said, “ and in my case there is absolutely 
nothing to be gained by it. ” 

“ Say at once that you don’t intend to leave Miss 
Baillie’s neighborhood,” said she. “ I know as well 
as if you told me that she is the magnet that keeps 
you here. O Vivian, how can you be so hood- 
winked? That girl means to entrap you into mar- 
riage. She is a horrid, designing creature, and I 
will never, never call her sister.” 

“ For the simple reason that you will never have 
the chance,” returned Dr. Dale calmly. Angry 
though he was, not a trace showed itself in voice or 
manner. “ I dare say you will be surprised to learn 
that I proposed to Miss Baillie before ever she set 
foot in this house, and that if she had been willing 
I would have made her my wife months ago.” 

Janet was surprised. This announcement almost 
took her breath away. She could hardly believe it 
possible that a girl in Emily’s position should have 
refused a man such as her brother. 

“ So, you see, ” continued the doctor, “ your unamia- 
ble and ungracious conduct to her was certainly un- 
219 


220 


Constance, 


called for, and your estimate of her character utterly 
at fault and most unjustifiable.” 

Janet had not a word to say, and long after Dr. 
Dale had betaken himself to his duties she sat and 
pondered over this mystery. 

“She is simply coquetting with him, then,” she 
reflected, “ and has netted a bigger fish. But I can 
find it easy to forgive her since she does not want to 
marry Vivian.” 

A day or two later she returned to her project of 
moving into a larger house. 

“We can well afford it now,” she said, 

“ I don’t intend to leave here until the lease isup. ” 
Dr. Dale spoke resolutely. “ I should be sorry if 
you thought me mean, and as I am doing fairly well 
I will buy a brougham — we can share it.” 

This pleased Janet, who dearly loved ease and 
comfort, and somewhat consoled her for her disap- 
pointment respecting another residence; but she 
hated Miss Baillie worse than ever, feeling assured 
that it was entirely on account of her proximity that 
her brother refused to give up his present house. 

The first visit Dr. Dale paid in his new brougham 
was to Mrs. Armitage. 

“ I am called over to Hampstead,” he said cheerily, 
“may I take Eva with me? It will be a change for 
her.” 

“Oh, she would be a trouble. You don’t know 
what a restless little animal she is — for all the world 
like a bit of quicksilver. ” 

“ Take Miss Baillie, too, ” cried Eva with the trium- 
phant air of one who had solved a knotty point. 

Dr. Dale laughed a little consciously. Mrs. Armi- 
tage came to the rescue. In her own mind she sus- 
pected that there was more in the attachment between 
the handsome young doctor and her governess than 
Emily would allow, and was willing to do every- 
thing in her power to further what could not but be 


CONSTANCE. 


221 


a most desirable match. So she rose from her seat, 
saying : 

If you have room for Miss Baillie as well, of 
course I could have no objection. I will tell her you 
are here.” 

Dr. Dale looked well pleased when Miss Baillie 
appeared ready equipped, carrying Eva’s hat and 
pelisse, and the little party set off in high spirits. 

Emily was beside him. Life was very pleasant at 
that moment. They turned sharply round a corner 
and passed Janet, who was bent on marketing. 

There was no mistaking the expression on her 
face, although they had but a fleeting glimpse of it. 
Disgust, surprise, incredulity, were all blended 
together. 

Emily broke into a peal of silvery laughter. “ We 
have all got into hot water now, ” she said. “ Why 
does your sister dislike me so. Dr. Dale?” 

“I think you can guess,” bending toward her. 
“Janet is jealous, I am afraid.” 

“ And yet, if it had not been me it would be some 
one else. She cannot expect to keep you with her 
always. ” 

“ But that is what it will end in. Emily, I shall 
never marry, unless— — ” 

“Unless,” echoed she dreamily. “Ah! who can 
say what fate holds for us.” 

Dr. Dale had been less than man if his pulses had 
not bounded and his heart leaped within him, for he 
construed the careless words into something very 
much warmer than they were meant to convey. 

Janet was in a white heat of rage. She did not 
even know that the brougham had arrived, and she 
felt it a positive insult that he should have taken 
Miss Baillie out the first time it was used. Dr. 
Dale was not in the least surprised to find her in an 
abominable temper when he arrived home. 

In solemn silence Janet received him. To his 


222 


CONSTANCE. 


remark that the day was lovely, and he had just 
half an hour to get his lunch, she made no response 
whatever. He said quietly : 

“ I can see that you are angered, Janet, and I am 
sorry that you should be so. I met Parker’s man 
just outside the house, coming to tell me that the 
brougham had been sent there, so I went round at 
once, and it ended in my getting into it there and 
then, and ” 

“ And taking your inamorata for a drive!” Janet 
spoke as insolently as she dared. She was a little 
astonished at the tone in which he replied to her. 

“Janet, we have lived together for some years, 
and I should be sorry for any break in our lives ; but 
from this day you must understand that I will allow 
no disparagement of the woman I love, and that 
when you speak slightingly and insulting of her, I 
shall be bound to resent it.” 

“ It is a case of ‘sober second thought,’ then? Miss 
Baillie has reconsidered her decision?” 

“ That in no way concerns you at present, my dear 
Janet. Whether she ever becomes my wife or not, 
she is the one woman in the world I love, and I exact 
for her civility and respect, if you cannot find it in 
you to be warm and cordial. ” 

There were tears in Janet’s eyes. How changed 
he was! Never had he spoken so harshly to her 
before. 

I think 5^ou are treating me unfairly,” she said. 
“ If she is to be your wife, you ought to tell me so, 
for it would be quite impossible that we could both 
live here.” 

“Yes, I think it would be,” he answered gravely. 
“ There could be no happiness for yourself, nor peace 
for me, while you entertain the malicious feelings 
you now have against that poor girl. It will relieve 
you to hear that Miss Baillie has not done me the 
honor of accepting my offer of marriage — yet.” 


CONSTANCE. 223 

He left the room as he spoke, and Janet sat lonely 
and miserable. 

He came home earlier than was his wont the next 
afternoon, stating that he did not feel very fit ; J anet 
looked up anxiously. He felt giddy, sick, and the 
pain in his head was intolerable. His sister was 
alarmed. Surely he was not going to be ill? 

“ What in the world will all your patients do with- 
out you?” said she. 

“Get well, most of them,” with a feeble attempt 
at a joke. Poor fellow! It was the last he made 
for. many a long day. He had lately had several 
cases of typhus fever, and was now himself a victim. 
Distracted with anxiety, Janet sent for advice, and 
when she learned the truth burst into tears. 

“ What am I to do?” she cried, wringing her hands. 

“ Pack your boxes and leave the house. An 
hysterical woman will only be in the way, and we 
don’t want to have you down with it yourself,” said 
the doctor, who was an old practitioner and by no 
means one to console damsels in distress. 

“ But if he is very ill — likely to be in danger — how 
can I leave him ?” 

Dr. Carver shrugged his shoulders. “ My dear 
lady, what good could you do by remaining? The 
fewer people in the house the better. The disease is 
highly contagious, and if you are going it must be at 
once or it will not be safe to risk carrying the infec- 
tion elsewhere.” 

Janet was an eminently practical woman. Once 
convinced of the wisdom and necessity of this step 
she lost no time in futile regrets. And Dr. Dale 
was left to the care of strangers. 

It was a hand-to-hand fight with death. Nothing 
but his superb constitution pulled him through. 
A charwoman had been installed in place of the neat 
housemaid and cook, who had both fled incontinently 
on hearing what the doctor was suffering from, and 


224 


CONSTANCE. 


this doleful, die-away personage took a melancholy 
pleasure in making the most of everything. She was 
middle-aged, with a fat red face wrinkled and creased 
and soft moist hands which she patted together softly 
the one over the other when she talked. How she 
irritated ^poor Janet no words could say. She would 
like to have heard from the nurse’s own lips how her 
brother was progressing, but that was impossible. 
Dr. Carver did not wish her to go to the house even 
to make inquiries, but Janet could not rest. Vivian 
was all she had in the world to love her, and if he 
died what was to become of"her? 

But Dr. Dale did not die. Little by little, *he 
struggled back to life and consciousness, the wraith 
of what he had been. So gaunt, so worn, he looked 
ten years older. 

Gradually health and strength came back; each 
day saw some slight improvement, however trivial ; 
and just a month from the day on whish Dr. Carver 
had been summoned to his bedside he was able to go 
away for change of air, accompanied by Janet. 


I 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Constance was changed. That subtle, intangible 
something that had been apparent to Emily Baillie’s 
apathetic gaze had communicated itself to the anxious 
sister, and since she had learned from. Lord Hard- 
stock that Basil St. Quentin had been in London, and 
seen and talked with Constance, and still she, Rebecca, 
was in ignorance of it, she felt that there must be a 
substantial reason for her reticence. Rebecca was 
never one to beat aboi^t the bush, and she opened 
fire at once. 

“ Why in the world did you not tell me that St. 
Quentin had been here?” she asked. 

“ He was never a great favorite of yours,” replied 
Constance evasively. 

“ No, you are right; he was not. He had an un- 
pleasant habit of airing his own superiority that was 
obnoxious in the extreme. I hate an Admirable 
Crichton.” 

“He was never that.” A soft red deepened on 
Constance’s cheek, and her breath came a little 
quicker from between her parted lips. “He has 
always been a true friend and a ” 

“ Humph ! he managed to get you into what might 
have been a nasty scrape. A man is a fool and worse 
who allows his affection for a woman to compromise 
her.” I 

“ How unjust you are! You know as well as I do 
that he had nothing in the world to do with it. It . 
was a pure accident, and he is the last man in the 
world to compromise a woman.” 

Rebecca tossed her head scornfully. “I always 
15 225 


226 


CONSTANCE. 


thought that St. Quentin was seen by your husband 
in the act of kissing your nand; but I suppose I must 
have misunderstood the actual facts. ” 

Thus cornered, Constance found it difficult to reply. 
She bit her lip vexedly. 

“ I hardly think it should be necessary for me to 
defend Mr. St. Quentin,” she said at last. “We 
have known him for too many years for it to be pos- 
sible for you to so cruelly misjudge him. Had Cyril 
not been drinking, the whole thing would have 
passed over unnoticed; but the man you think so 
much of. Lord Hardstock, did his best to fan the 
flame. What blame there is should lie at his door. 
He could have no possible motive but malice for 
acting as he did.” 

“ My dear Constance, you argue like a child. Lord 
Hardstock has proved the depth of his affection for 
you. Over and over again he has stood between 
you and harm. He would give you your own again 
if you would but accept it at his hands. He is every- 
thing that is generous and loyal.” 

“ And I suppose you wish to infer that Mr. St. 
Quentin is not. Well, we will agree to differ.” 
She took up her work with an air that said plainly 
the discussion was at an end. But Rebecca was 
waxing more uneasy every moment. She did not 
like this championship on her sister’s part. It was 
so unlike Constance. 

“ What had he to say the other day?” 

“ A great many things. He has gone to Constan- 
tinople with dispatches. He was not here very long. 
Have you any more questions you would like to ask, 
Rebecca?” There was a saucy gleam in her eye that 
Rebecca had never seen there since before her mar- 
riage with Cyril Armitage, and it struck a cold thrill 
to her heart. She scented mischief ahead. 

“Yes,” she answered desperately, yet with a cer- 
tain quaver in her voice. “ Are you keeping any- 


CONSTANCE. 


227 


thing back from me? Is there more between yon 
and Basil St. Quentin than the world knows of? You 
— you are not going to be so mad as to let him love 
you, Constance?” 

Constance’s work fell on her lap. 

“ He has done that already; it is beyond my power 
to control it.” 

“ But you will not give him any encouragement? 
Think how ridiculous it would be. If you marry, 
it must be a man with some money. St. Quentin’s 
income barely keeps himself.” 

“There is no engagement between us.” 

Constance spoke slowly and decisively. “ But per- 
haps I had better tell you that if ever I do marry it 
will be the man whose true worth I have proved, and 
whom I hold more highly honored than any other.” 

Mrs. Strangways groaned. Though her suspicions 
had pointed to this, the confirmation of her doubts 
was a terrible blow to her. She tried to speak — to 
argue — to urge the folly of such a step ; but Constance 
paid no heed. 

“ I am old enough to judge for myself,” she said 
haughtily, “ and I deny that any human being has a 
right to interfere in what I believe to be for my 
future happiness.” 

“ Then it is settled?” 

“ No, nothing is settled. I should not have men- 
tioned the subject to you at all had you not mooted 
it. We will not talk of it any more. We will have 
a cup of tea. I will ring at once.” 

“No.” Mrs. Strangways put out her hand. “I 
could not eat a morsel — it would choke me! Let 
me go!” 

Hurriedly, with a suspicious huskiness in her 
voice, she left the room. To do her justice, she 
loved her sister, and her grief was really great that 
she should be so blind to her own advantage. 

Rebecca buried her misgivings in her own bosom. 


228 


CONSTANCE. 


Not even to her liege lord did she -unburden herself, 
for it might leak out and reach the ears of Lord 
Hardstock; and he must be kept in ignorance of 
Constance’s avowal as long as possible. It might 
all end in smoke, after all. 

Be very sure that Constance spoke no word that 
could enlighten his lordship. And during the days 
that followed, her thoughts turned but rarely to her 
absent lover, for she was extremely uneasy about 
Daphne. Gerald had wrote a long, sad letter from 
St. Cloud — where it appeared he had taken his wife 
on leaving Monte Carlo. 

“I fear he is falling into a grave error,” Con- 
stance said anxiously. “ Coercion and harshness 
will never do for Daphne. ” And then she took up 
the closely written sheets and reperused them. 

Gerald was desperate. For a time all had gone 
well. His giddy little pleasure-loving wife had pro- 
fessed herself well amused, and had shown no wish 
to return to Paris, but just when he was feeling most 
secure, and congratulating himself on having re- 
moved her from the dreaded intimacy with the 
Maupas family. Monsieur Raoul appeared upon the 
scene, and Daphne greeted him with, such a sus- 
picious lack of astonishment that it was only too 
apparent she expected him. 

It was too much for Gerald Armitage, and acting 
on the spur of the moment, without giving himself 
time for thought, he did the most foolish thing pos- 
sible — turned his back on the young man, and left 
Daphne for the best part of an hour alone with him. 
He was so angry that he positively dare not approach 
her, and when Daphne came tripping coquettishly 
along, radiant and dimpled, he remained mute to all 
her pretty speeches, and by and by Daphne ceased 
talking, and in ominous silence they reached their 
hotel. 

But when they were in their own room the storm 


CONSTANCE. 


229 


burst. Tor once in her frivolous life, Daphne was 
frightened. She denied all knowledge of Monsieur 
Raoul’s movements, although she admitted that she 
corresponded constantly with Madame Maupas. 

“And you can tell me that quietly?’’ cried her 
husband, “knowing, as you well do, how much I 
object to your having intimacy with these people! 
Since affection and kindness have no weight with 
you, we will see what harsher measures will effect. 
From this day forward, I forbid you to address Mon- 
sieur Maupas.” 

“ And if I refuse to obey you?” 

The mutinous mouth quivered a little, and tears 
were very near the starry eyes ; but Gerald did not 
guess it ; he only heard the rebellious tone, and told 
himself that he must be firm, for that the whole hap- 
piness of the future depended upon it. 

“ You hardly dare do that!” 

“ Dare ! That is a strange word to use to your 
wife. So long as I conduct myself with propriety, 
you have no right to dictate to me, or to seek to con- 
trol my actions. It will be quite time enough for 
you to interfere when I outrage you. ” 

“ I have not the slightest intention of waiting for 
that. My honor is in your hands, since you bear 
my name, and it behoves me to guard it.” 

Daphne’s short upper lip curled scornfully. “ Your 
honor is in no danger,” said she; and then she 
flashed out suddenly. “ I don’t know why I am 
arguing' with you. I tell you no — a hundred times, 
no — you shall not choose my friends for me! I will 
give you no promise whatsoever. I shall see and 
talk to Monsieur Maupas as often and as long as I 
please.” 

Then Mr. Armitage sat down and wrote .to Con- 
stance a long account of all that had transpired, and 
Daphne shut herself up in her room and refused to 
come out. And when he found that expostulations 


230 


CONSTANCE. 


and entreaties were alike disregarded, he carried off 
the irate little woman away from Monte Carlo 
altogether. 

Daphne was terribly disgusted and a little dis- 
mayed at this wholly unexpected move, but consoled 
herself with the reflection that, once at home, she 
could see Madame Maupas, and Raoul would not 
care to remain away long after her return. But she 
reckoned without her host. Mr. Armitage had not 
the faintest intention of remaining in Paris, and when 
Daphne realized that she was to be buried in St. 
Cloud, with a jealous husband mounting guard over 
her, she fairly broke down, and cried bitterly. 

“I will kill myself! I will run away!” she cried, 
passionately. “You are a perfect brute — a barba- 
rian; but I am not your slave, and you shall not 
tyrannize over me.” 

Finding he answered her nothing, she dried her 
eyes and condescended to question him more hum- 
bly. How long were they to stop in this hateful 
place? When might she go home? 

“ When you are cured of your folly, and have come 
to your senses,” replied Gerald gravely. 

I believe you want to drive me mad. You would 
be glad if I died.” 

“My poor child — Daphne — think what you are 
saying. ” 

“ I do. I know you hate me as much as I hate 
you!” 

Then there was a little silence. Mr. Armitage’s 
face had grown curiously white. She qould see it 
reflected in the mirror above the mantle-shelf. Per- 
haps her conscience pricked her a little. She was on 
the point of speaking, and who knows whether the 
misery that was in store for the poor foolish girl 
might not have been averted had she done so ; but 
the moment of grace went by. 

“You hate me — me, my wife!” 


CONSTANCE. 


23T 

“ With my whole heart and soul I hate and despise 
you !” 

“ Some day I will remind you of what you have 
said; for the present let it pass. I am your husband. 
Whatsoever your feelings may be toward me, nothing 
can alter that fact, and I am in a measure respon- 
sible for your conduct, therefore I am acting for the 
good of both. You will remain at St. Cloud until I 
am assured that you will do my bidding, and that I 
need fear nothing'in the future.” 

“ Then we shall live and die and be buried here,” 
cried wilful Daphne ; “ for I will never give in to 
you — never, never!” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Constance was loath to interfere, and yet she felt 
that her brother-in-law was acting- most injudiciously, 
and that harm could not but come of it. She was 
confirmed in this belief when, a few days later, she 
received an epistle from Daphne wholly character- 
istic of that small personage: incoherent, wild, pas- 
sionate, and rebellious. She smiled as she read. 
The whole production was so like that of a spoiled 
child thwarted for her own good. Then she sighed, 
for she realized how serious it was, and what utter 
misery might result from it all. 

What was to be done? How could she, Constance, 
at a distance, quell the disturbance? And yet each 
appealed to her. 

“You, who have so much influence with her,” 
wrote Gerald. 

“ He will listen to you. Tell him he must treat 
me more kindly, or I will do something desperate,” 
pleaded Daphne^. • 

Constance folded up the blotted ink-stained sheets, 
and laid them by. What she wrote in reply need 
not be repeated, but on the very day that Mr. Armi- 
tage received her letter he took his wife back to 
Paris. Daphne was subdued and humbled. She, too, 
had had her share of friendly counsel, and for the 
moment was touched and alive to the gentler tone 
her husband adopted toward her. 

She was glad — oh, so glad — to go back home. The 
life at St. Cloud was irksome to the last degree. She 
had ventured once to write to her friends in the Rue 
St. Honord, but in some incomprehensible way Mr. 
Armitage had possessed himself of the letter, and 
232 


CONSTANCE. 


233 


Sternly ordered her to destroy it. Unwilling, per- 
haps, that he should see or read what she had written, 
she obeyed. After that she made no further attempt 
to correspond with them, but she would not talk. 
She merely shrugged her shoulders peevishly when 
addressed; and she spent the greater part of her 
time lying on the sofa with her eyes shut. 

“What was she thinking of?” Gerald wondered, 
as his eyes rested on the baby face, with its soft 
pink and white prettiness, and the fair brow puckered 
and 'drawn together, while the corners of the rosy 
mouth drooped sadly. How he hated to vex her. 
In spite of her perverseness, she was very dear to 
him. In his heart he forgave her all — even the cruel 
words that had stabbed him to the quick, but which, 
viewed by the strong light of common sense, he told 
himself she could never have meant in all sternness 
and reality. 

To “ hate” a person was an everyday occurrence 
with Daphne, and nine times out of ten merely con- 
veyed the impression that she was displeased with 
them. 

“ Daphne, would you like to go back to Paris?” 

She looked up at him with a pathetic little ges- 
ture, but she did not speak. 

“ I am going to try you again — to trust you, Daphne 
— to put you on your honor not to do what I disap- 
prove of. You will not disappoint me, dear?” 

Daphne would have purchased her freedom at a 
far greater sacrifice than the utterance of a few care- 
less phrases which meant absolutely nothing to her- 
self; so she made glib promises, and nodded her 
pretty head affirmatively, and forthwith began to 
pack her trunks. 

“Hateful place! I hope I shall never see you 
again,” she cried at the last, shaking her small 
clenched fist in the direction of St. Cloud, as the 
train bore them swiftly back to Paris. 


234 


CONSTANCE. 


“ I wonder what she said to soften my bear?” she 
was thinking as she lay back in her corner and sur- 
veyed her husband, surreptitiously from beneath her 
thick curly lashes; “for of course I know that I owe 
my deliverance to Constance. She pulled the strings 
that made the puppet dance.” 

Mr. Armitage did not trust so implicitly to his 
little wife’s promises of good behavior as she ex- 
pected him to do. He rarely left her alone, and she 
overheard him giving orders to Louise that Madame 
Maupas was not to be admitted to her salon. This 
made Daphne very angry. “ He treats me like a 
child,” she pouted, “and expects me to behave like 
a woman of the world. ” She immediately set her 
busy brain to work to devise a plan by which she 
could circumvent him. 

“ I am going to Madame Hortense. I suppose you 
will not care to accompany me?” she said a day or 
two later. 

“ On the contrary, yes. Why not?” 

Daphne bit her lip, but made no protest ; and Mon- 
sieur le Mari waited patiently for more than an hour 
while his wife had her dress fitted on. She was only 
in the next compartment; he could hear her voice 
chattering volubly, for the partition that divided 
them was i\ot more than five feet high. 

He could hear her, and was quite easy; but it was 
lucky he could not see, or it is doubtful whether he 
would have gone away in so equable a frame of 
mind. Daphne drew forth a pencil and sheet of 
paper, hastily scribbled a few lines on it, talking all 
the time, while Madame Hortense stood calmly by, 
scenting an intrigue in the air, and laughing in her 
sleeve at the clever trick madame was playing her 
husband. 

When the envelope was thrust into her hand with 
a whispered word of admonition, she was a good 
deal surprised to find that it was addressed to a lady. 


CONSTANCE. 235 

and a little puzzled to account for the diplomacy and 
manoeuvring required. “ Mais oui, madame!” The 
letter was crushed into madame’s pocket, and Daphne 
emerged beaming. 

“At three o’clock to-morrow,” she said, smiling 
her sweetest, “ the dress will be ready by then, and 
I will be here. ” 

“ What, again ! Good gracious ! how many times 
is it necessary to fit a gown on?” demanded Mr. 
Armitage. 

“ As many as its wearer pleases, ” returned Daphne, 
with unruffled serenity. Her eyes sparkled, and in 
her wayward heart she was saying a small jubilate. 

On the following afternoon, promptly as the clock 
struck three, she mounted the white staircase that 
led to Madame Hortense’s show-rooms. Mr. Armi- 
tage accompanied her to the door, and gave a quick 
glance around, but the apartment was empty. 

“I think I will smoke a cigar below,” he said to 
his wife as he prepared to descend. 

“ Do,” murmured Daphne. “ I shall be some time 
engaged.” 

The moment the door was shut she wished round 
the corner of the partition, and found, as she knew 
she would, the plump figure of Madame Maupas 
wedged in among the hanging skirts with which the 
wall was covered. How much there was to tell ! and 
Daphne was by no means reticent. She told her 
friend in just so many words that Mr. Armitage dis- 
liked her, and had commanded her to give up her 
friendship. 

“But that I never will,” said Daphne, with a 
tragic air. “ I told him so, and for the crime of 
loving you I have been buried alive in St. Cloud. It 
is too hard.” 

“ It is not I whom monsieur fears, but my brother, ” 
purred madame. 

Daphne blushed generously, over brow and cheek. 


236 


CONSTANCE. 


“Well,” she said, “ am I never then to speak to one 
of my own age? It is too absurd.” 

Madame agreed with her. It was quite too ridicu- 
lous, and Daphne had done well in standing her 
ground. Ah ! ces hommes I ces honmies ! They were 
all tyrants. A woman must needs plant her foot 
down firmly if she meant to have any peace or happi- 
ness in her life. 

“And Raoul,” began Daphne, “is he back in Paris 
yet?” 

“ He returned as soon as he found that you had 
flown,” significantly; “ and he called yesterday upon 
you, but you were not at home.” 

“ Nor am I likel57to be while my husband remains 
in his present frame of mind. It is too bad ! Are 
we never to meet?” 

“ It will be difficult, but not impossible. ” Madame 
Maupas’ voice had sunk to a mere whisper. Hor- 
tense’s ear glued to the partition could catch but the 
faintest murmur. 

“Are you brave enough to run some small risk?” 

Yes, Daphne felt quite brave and valiant, feeling 
she could remove mountains, and thinking it very 
great fun to outwit her husband. And then Madame 
Maupas whispered into the small pink ear, and 
Daphne’s eyes danced with mischief, and she clapped 
her hands delightedly. For the next two or three 
weeks Daphne was a model wife. 

“ Her own sweet self again,” Gerald told himself 
joyfully. 

She was content to stay at home unless he wished 
to go out, and in that case ready and pleased to 
accompany him. The matrimonial horizon had 
cleared, and there was a prospect of peace ahead. 
Never once did it cross Mr. Armitage’s mind that 
beneath the placid waters there might be a turbulent 
swell. To all outward appearance. Daphne was 
content, and he knewThat she was acting as he would 


CONSTANCE. 


237 


have her do, for the simple reason that he gave her 
no loophole for disobedience or rebellion. 

The bird was tamed, and a long letter went to Con- 
stance to tell her of the glad change. But from 
Daphne there came no word, and when in answer to 
one of hers there was still only silence, Constance 
found it difficult to see things in quite the roseate 
aspect that her brother did. 

“ Do not draw the reins too tightly — remember 
how much liberty she has had,” wrote Constance in 
reply, and then hesitated. Should she say a word 
of caution — the merest hint? 

No. Better not. Gerald was on the spot. He 
must be a better judge of how things really were 
than she could be. But after her letter was sealed 
and posted she regretted her decision, for a vague, 
nameless fear hung over her — a subtle instinct that 
warned her of coming evil. Daphne differed so 
essentially from other women, it was difficult to 
know exactly how to treat her. Rules laid down 
for the guidance of her sex somehow needed adapting 
before pressing upon her. Hastiness and severity 
would inevitably defeat their object. Of that she 
was. assured. Yet, given her own way and unlimited 
freedom, and ten to one she would abuse it. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


“ My dearest Constance ; — I have refrained from writ- 
ing, although you did not forbid me to do so, wishing to 
leave you absolutely free and unbiassed in our decision. 
You hold my future in your hands — I speak no word of 
love. If you could see into my heart, you would know 
how wholly and absolutely it is yours. Dear — tell me, 
may I come and take my answer from your lips? I shall 
be at the Metropole on Thursday week. 

“ Until then, yours devotedly, 

“ Basil St. Quentin.” 

Mrs. Armitage’s hand trembled as she laid this 
letter aside, and a faint rose stained her cheek. 
Thursday! And this was already Tuesday. 

When the morning of the loth of April dawned, 
it found her almost childishly happy and expectant. 
She would not trust herself to write more than a line. 

“ I shall be home to-night at seven. Come.” 

That was all. It did not tell him much, and yet — — 
“ He will know, he must know, what my answer 
is,” she thought wistfully, as she carefully sealed 
the envelope, and despatched it by a messenger to 
the Metropole. 

An answer? No — there would be none ! A smile 
rippled over her face. She was so insanely happy. 
It seemed as if only now had she realized how 
supremely blessed a woman’s life might be, brim 
full of hope and contentment. And then she went 
softly upstairs and shut herself in her own room and 
was seen no more. Eva and her governess dined 
alone. 


238 


CONSTANCE. 


239 


Mrs. Armitage was expecting visitors, Miss Baillie 
learned, a little to her surprise, and there would be a 
late dinner. When, about a quarter to seven, she 
met Mrs. Armitage on the stairs, it must be con- 
fessed she experienced a prodigious shock. Con- 
stance was calmly fastening a pearl bracelet, and she 
was dressed in white from head to foot — she who had 
worn the sable garb of widowhood so long — in dainty 
silk and lace, with a bud or two of sweet-smelling 
narcissus in her bosom. Her luxuriant hair, no 
longer hidden by the envious cap, was coiled loosely 
on the top of her head, and hung prettily upon her 
brow. But it was not only her dress that astonished 
the governess, it was the extraordinary, undefinable 
change that had taken place. Her eyes were humid 
and starry, a delicate rose burnt on her cheek. She 
was the incarnation of loveliness and joy. She 
smiled at Emily as she passed — a little consciously, 
perhaps, but with a certain pride. 

“Who is the man?” asked Emily, when she found 
herself alone. “ Who has warmed the icicle into life 
and beauty? I must find out who the visitor is whom 
madam delights to honor. ” She had not long to wait. 

When the front-door bell rang loudly, and steps — 
the heavy footfall of a man — came up the stairs to 
the drawing-room, Constance put her hand to her 
side; her heart beat so thick and fast it was positive 
pain. But when the door opened, the color faded 
from her face — it was Lord Hardstock who advanced 
to greet her ! 

Was ever anything so annoying? What could have 
brought him here at so 7nal-a-propos a moment? And 
how was she to get rid of him? While these thoughts 
were passing through her mind, his lordship, almost 
as greatly amazed as Miss Baillie had been at the 
brilliant apparition that met his gaze, was apologizing 
for this late visit. 

“ I ought to have been here more than an hour 


* 240 


CONSTANCE. 


ago, but am ashamed to confess that I wasted the 
best part of the afternoon over billiards. What I 
ran up to see you about is this: I have a box at the 
Garrick for to-morrow night. Will you go if I can 
persuade Mrs. Strangways to accompany us?” 

“ Thank you, it would be quite impossible. ” Con- 
stance was on tenterhooks. At any moment St. 
Quentin might arrive. 

“ You are going out?” said his lordship tenta- 
tively. Constance grasped at the excuse. 

“I am,” she said breathlessly, “and, to tell you 
the truth, I am late.” 

“ Ah !” He rose at once. “ Then I will say good- 
night. I hope you will reconsider your decision 
about the Garrick. I believe there is rather a good 

play there just now, and ” He was devouring 

her with glances of the warmest admiration. 

“You are surprised that my time of mourning 
should have expired?” she said, with a faint laugh. 

“ No,” he answered. “ If I had my will, you should 
never have put on widow’s weeds for such a man as 
Cyril Armitage. He was never worthy of you, 
Constance. ” 

Before she could reply, a double rat-tat resounded 
through the house. It was too late ! The men would 
meet! Constance could almost have wept. Instinc- 
tively her eyes sought the door. 

“A telegram, madam.” 

With a sigh of relief she tore it open, read the few 
words it contained, and sank back, quivering in every 
limb. 

“ What has happened?” Without waiting for per- 
mission, Lord Hardstock took the flimsy paper from 
between her fingers and possessed himself of its con- 
tents. 

“ From Mrs. Armitage, Les Trois Princes, Amiens. — 
Come to me at once. I dare not letum to Paris. — 
Daphne.” 


CONSTANCE. 


241 


“I must start at once. " In a dazed, bewildered 
fashion, Constance pushed the hair from her brow 
and looked up appealingly into Lord Hardstock’s 
face. 

“ You are not seriously thinking of going to-night?” 

“ I must. God only knows what folly that poor 
child has been guilty of ; and if I am to catch the 
mail there is no time to be lost. Do not let me 
detain you.” 

Lord Hardstock took the slender hand she extended 
and -pressed it warmly. 

“If you are determined, I shall go with you,” he 
said, and she made no demur. When the door had 
closed upon her, he quietly put the telegram into 
his pocket and went down to the dining-room. 

The moment he pushed open the door the mystery 
of the dainty apparel explained itself. Mrs. Armi- 
tage was not dining out, as she would have it appear, 
but was entertaining chez elle. 

Ah! ah! His lordship promptly rang the bell. 

“ Get me a glass of wSherry, will you?” he said to 
Phoebe, who answered his summons ; “ and then call 
a cab at once.” 

“ But ” the girl gasped. 

“Yes, yes, I know.” He seized the decanter and 
poured out a tiimblerful. “ Do as you are bid, and 
don’t wait to ask questions. Give me pen and paper. ” 

He then scribbled a few lines, which he folded 
and handed to the astonished maid, deftly accom- 
panying it with a gold coin. 

“Give that to Miss Baillie after we are gone,” he 
said, almost in a whisper, for he could hear Con- 
stance on the stairs. 

She came in, very pale, her travelling cloak about 
her shoulders, and a small bag in her hand. At the 
door she paused, and would have retreated. 

“Eva,” she said. “ I had forgotten her. I can- 
not go without bidding her good-by.” 

16 


242 


CONSTANCE. 


Nonsense. You will lose the train. Come, Con- 
stance. ” 

She never noticed that he used her Christian 
name, but Phoebe did. She had hailed a hansom, 
and stood open-mouthed, drinking in every word. 

“Tell Miss Baillie I will write,” said Constance, 
in desperation. In another minute they were gone. 

Eva was putting her toys away, and wondering 
very much why her governess did not come to the 
nursery, for it was her bedtime, and for once she 
was feeling sleepy and tired. Miss Baillie had been 
gone a long time. 

“Aren’t you in bed, my dear?” It was Phoebe’s 
voice at the open door. 

“No,” said Eva, in a tone of resignation. “I’m 
waiting very patiently.” 

“ Bless the child. ” Phoebe advanced into the 
room. “ It’s a shame to leave you alone. She’s read 
her letter a score of times by now; well, she’ll have 
to come down!” and she forthwith marched up to 
Miss Baillie’s door and knocked loudly. 

“ What do you want?” The voice was muffled. 

“ A gentleman in the drawing-room, miss, as says 
he must see some one right away.” 

A pause, and then, “ Who is it?” 

“ Mr. St. iQuentin is the gentleman’s name, I be- 
lieve; but I left his card in the hall.” 

“ I will be down in a minute. ” There was a sound 
of water splashing, and a minute or two later the 
key turned in the lock. Miss Baillie had gone down 
to interview Mrs. Armitage’s lover. 

Her eyes were red and swollen, and her face dis- 
torted with passionate weeping.- In the bosom of 
her gown lay Rupert Hardstock’s cruel letter: 

“ It is kinder to tell you the truth, Emily, and I do so 
in a few words. Mrs. Armitage has left London with 
me to-night. We shall be married in Paris.” 


CONSTANCl. 


243 


“ You wished to see me ?" 

“No, madam, I wish to see Mrs. Armitage; but I 
am told she is from home — has been summoned 
abroad. ” 

“ Mrs. Armitage has eloped with Lord Hardstock.” 

“ What ! My God ! what are you saying? It is a 
lie!” 

“ It is the truth. He was my lover, and she has 
taken him from me.” The dreary pathos in her tone 
brought conviction to him, and he grasped the back 
of a chair to steady himself, for, strong man though 
he was, his brain reeled. 

“ There is — there must be — some hideous mistake. ” 

“ None. He came here less than an hour ago, and 
she went with him of her own free will. The servants 
will corroborate what I say. She left a message for 
me — none for her child. ” 

“ If an angel came down from Heaven to persuade 
me, I would not believe.” 

“ Convince yourself. They catch the eight o’clock 
mail. You will have time to get to Charing Cross.” 

He was down the stairs and out of the house almost 
before she had ceased speaking. 

“ I wish I could kill her!” It would have fared ill 
with Constance Armitage if she had been within 
reach of the clenched hand. With a moan of despair 
Emily flung herself face downward on the couch. 

“Ah, fool that I have been!” she cried. “Fool! 
fool! to think that a man would care to purchase 
whaf he might take for the asking. But I gave him 
my all — my love, my life, myself, and he has shaken 
me off like some noxious animal — spurned me — 
deserted and left me to die. But I will live — live to 
be avenged.” 

Basil St. Quentin was just in time to see Lord 
Hardstock jump into the train, and to catch a glimpse 
of a pale sweet face at the window — the face of Con- 
stance Armitage. 


244 


CONSTANCE. 


Then it was true ! 

She had fooled him to the top of his bent, and was 
now laughing at him ! 

“Well, I have her answer,” he muttered, between 
his teeth. “ She promised it to me to-night, and — 
she has kept her word. ” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


Daphne’s angelic state of mind still continued. 
Not even in the first days of the honeymoon had she 
been so docile and submissive. Gerald Armitage 
felt that some good fairy must have waved her wand 
over the curly head and transformed her into a model 
wife, and was proportionately grateful. 

It did occur to him that she paid a good many 
visits to Madame Hortense, but he was not a man to 
grudge a few pounds over a woman’s whims. So 
Daphne went her reckless way, and her luckless hus- 
band was in happy ignorance of the treachery that 
lurked beneath that smiling exterior. When busi- 
ness called him to Bordeaux he went without the 
slightest misgiving. He would be away two days, 
and he could trust his darling. 

“ If you wish it, I will not go out at all,” said she, 
with her arms round his neck and her dimpled cheeks 
laid close to his. 

“ No,” he would neither ask nor expect that of her. 
She knew what his wishes were, and all he asked 
was that she would regard them. He kissed the 
blooming face, and left her with a light heart. 

- Perhaps a little feeling of compunction kept her 
indoors all that day. Even to her dwarfed sense of 
honor it seemed a mean and contemptible thing to 
deceive the man who trusted her so implicitly; but 
the next morning all such scruples had taken to them- 
selves wings. She remembered only that she was 
free, and that it would be very pleasant to see Raoul 
de Maupas. But she must act with the utmost dis- 
cretion. A visit to Hortense resulted in a note to 
245 


246 


CONSTANCE. 


Madame which that lady received between three and 
four o’clock. She twisted it impatiently between 
her fingers, uncertain how to act, for her brother-in- 
law had gone out, and would not be in until much 
later. At last she went round to Hortense. 

Daphne was still there, and her face fell consider- 
ably when she saw her friend. Where was Raoul? 

“Oh, my dear child, luck is against you.” And 
Madame de Maupas explained matters. 

Daphne could have cried, she felt so disappointed. 

“ I don’t know when I shall have such a chance 
again,” she pouted. 

“Ah! I have it. You shall come with me. He 
will be back soon. You can have one little glimpse 
of each other.”. 

It was difficult to say why Madame de Maupas en- 
couraged this flirtation. She was not bad at heart. 
It must always be remembered that to a French- 
man an intrigue with a married woman is an every- 
day affair, and if Raoul had a caprice for another 
man’s wife, it was nothing surprising — indeed, only 
what one might expect, considering the disparity in 
years between Daphne and her husband. 

But AngMe looked at matters from a wholl}^ differ- 
ent point of view. Raoul was very dear to her, and 
until Daphne came between them she had fondly 
hoped that he would ask her to be his wife. 

Angele had left her premih'e jeunesse behind. Her 
glass told her that she was faded; fine lines were 
tracing themselves about the corners of her eyes. 
Then, too, she was not clever — in fact, she had noth- 
ing to recommend her beyond a surface wit and 
power of repartee, and her temper, once of the sun- 
niest, had become decidedly crabbed and sour. An- 
gele was verging on old-maidism, and the prospect 
daunted her. 

“ If it were not for that doll-faced chit, all would 
be well,” she mused sadly. “What right has she 


CONSTANCE. 


247 


to force herself between him and me?” She was too 
wise to speak slightingly of Daphne : that would but 
have betrayed her jealous feelings and provoked 
mirth on the part .of her sister. She was a little in 
awe of madame, who could be aggravatingly sympa- 
thetic on occasion. More than once she had be- 
moaned the lack of suitors for Angele’s hand, and 
when that young lady had tartly replied she was in 
no great hurry to be married, she had smiled benev- 
olently, adding: 

“ My dearest Ang^le, every woman wishes for an 
establishment of her own, even if she is not anxious 
for a husband ; and in your case it is unfortunately 
not a question of option, but necessity, since you 
have no dot. ” 

“ And if I had, I would have the spending of it 
myself,” Angele retorted, “and snap my fingers at 
men.” 

“ But as you have not, don’t you think it would be 
wiser to cultivate a more amiable spirit, dear?” 

AngMe had bounced out of the room in a fury, 
and she never forgot or forgave her sister for her 
plain-speaking. She thought it a gratuitous piece 
of unkindness on madame’s part to encourage Raoul 
in his silly flirtation with Mrs. Armitage, and vowed 
that retribution should come to all three. 

It was about this time that fate played into her 
hands. Madame de Maupas’ visit to Hortense first 
attracted her attention. What did she go there 
for? 

Not to order new gowns, for her prices were far 
beyond their modest means. She offered to accom- 
pany her sister, but Felicie promptly declined. By 
sheer accident she discovered that her sister met 
Daphne there. 

“We never see Mrs. Armitage now,” she said, 
feeling her way. “ Are they not returned?” 

Raoul, who was present, looked up from his book. 


248 


CONSTANCE. 


“Weeks ago!” he replied curtly, dropping his 
eyes again. 

“ Have we, then, been so unfortunate as to offend 
her; or is she ill?” 

“Neither, I believe.” 

“Are you the culprit, Raoul?” she then asked, 
shaking her finger rebukingly at him. “ Have your 
eyes told too flattering a tale and scared the pretty 
bird?” 

“ It pleases Mademoiselle Clairette to be enigmat- 
ical,” was Raoul’s sole rejoinder to this pleasantry. 
A minute later he quitted the room. Felicie turned 
angrily to her sister. 

“What possessed you to bring Mrs. Armitage’s 
name on the tapis?” she cried. “ Have you no brains 
that you cannot see it is a sore subject?” 

“ Why should it be?” AngMe settled herself com- 
fortably in her chair, and joined the tips of her slen- 
der fingers together. She loved an argument. 
“What has she to do with us?” 

“ Nothing whatever.” 

“ Then where is the harm in mentioning her? You 
and she were such dear friends before she went to 
Monte Carlo that I may surely be pardoned for won- 
dering what has chanced to part you.” 

“ My dear girl, for some reason known only to 
yourself, you do not like Mrs. Armitage,” she re- 
plied evasively. 

“ Now, Felicie, you don’t intend to infer that that 
is the reason her visits here have ceased. I am 
scarcely likely to believe that. Have you seen her 
at all since her return?” 

“ Yes, I have.” 

“ Oh, you have called upon her?” 

“No, I met her accidentally.” 

AngMe asked no more questions. She saw very 
plainly that she was to be kept in the dark, and 
deeply resented it. But she would not be worsted. 


CONSTANCE. 


249 

She would watch and wait. A letter came by hand 
for madame one morning, bearing Madame Hor- 
tense’s seal upon the envelope. Without giving 
herself time for reflection, she tore it open and 
rapidly mastered its contents. 

“ At four this afternoon. ” It was not even signed. 

A few minutes later Felicie entered the room, and 
walked straight up to the mantel-shelf. 

“ Is there not a letter for me?” she asked, seeing 
nothing there. 

“I am so sorry, Felicie,” replied AngMe calmly. 
“ A bill, or something of the sort, came half an hour 
ago. I was looking over old letters and papers and 
destroying them, and I believe it must have got 
mixed up with them and is burned. It could not 
have been of much consequence — it was only from 
Hortense. Trust her to send it in again soon 
enough. ” 

Felicie bit her lip. “ It is not like you to be so 
careless,” she said sharply. But she had not the 
faintest suspicion of the truth. It chanced that she 
met Madame Hortense in the street and learned that 
a letter had been sent to her, and that an appoint- 
ment was made for four o’clock. A good deal to 
AngMe’s surprise, her sister proclaimed her inten- 
tion of remaining at home that afternoon. It was 
strange. But what was stranger still, at half-past 
three Raoul came in, so tired, he declared, he could 
not move another step; whereupon Felicie beckoned 
him into the inner salon. After a whispered word 
or two, he ran blithely upstairs, and must speedily 
have overcome his fatigue, for within ten minutes 
AngMe heard the outer door shut. He had gone out. 

The appointment, then, was with him. Oh, it 
was iniquitous! scandalous! disgraceful! And Fe- 
licie could sit there calmly and countenance it all ! 
Angele paced the room in a perfect paroxysm of 
rage and virtuous indignation. So her sister , was 


250 


CONSTANCE. 


the go-between, the cat’s paw; and Raoul and his 
inamorata met by her connivance and arrangement. 
When, therefore, Felicie walked in, followed closely 
by Daphne herself, she could not restrain a start of 
surprise. 

“ You are a stranger!” she said graciously enough. 
“ We never see you now.” 

Daphne murmured something about being busy. 

“ You will stay and have dinner with us?” pleaded 
Felicie. 

Then Angele learned that Mr. Armitage was from 
home, which somewhat explained matters. 

Daphne required very little pressing. It had all 
been arranged beforehand — that Angele could see 
at a glance. Daphne was carried off to Felicie ’s own 
room, from which she did not emerge until the din- 
ner hour. 

Raoul came in ten minutes before. AngMe heard 
his step, and went out to meet him, smiling her 
sweetest. 

“Guess,” said she, “who is here!” 

“How can I guess,” he cried impatiently. “Let 
me pass, Angele. I am off to Amiens to-night, 
and shall barely have time.” 

“To Amiens?” in great surprise. “What takes 
you there?” 

“ Business, ” he said curtly. But when he opened 
the salon door, and saw the petite figure ensconsed 
in a big easy-chair, his face lighted up. With a 
quick step he crossed the floor, speaking a few words 
rapidly in a half -whisper. Angle’s sharp ear 
caught the familiar tu' toi which was all that was 
needed to confirm her suspicions. 

Dinner over. Daphne was anxious to return home. 
Gerald would he back within an hour or two, and it 
was only natural that Raoul should offer to drive her 
back on his way to the station. For half a second 
she demurred. 


CONSTANCE. 


251 

It was running a risk. And yet Daphne wished 
it so much that her better judgment was stifled. 
With a smile she acquiesced, hastily donned her 
walking attire, and ran lightly down the stone stair- 
case, followed by Raoul, who paused to bid his sister- 
in-law good-by. 

“Home to-morrow,” he called out, as he waved 
his hand gaily, Angble behind the J>ortiere watched 
him hand his companion into a Jiacre and take his 
place beside her. She set her teeth savagely to- 
gether. 

“ He had not the civility to bid me farewell. 
Never mind; I count for nothing now; but pres- 
ently, qui vivra verra. ” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


Ce rCest que le premier pas qui coute. Having yielded 
so much, it seemed but a trifle m_ore to allow herself 
to be persuaded into driving with Monsieur Raoul 
as far as the station itself, instead of being dropped 
at her own door. 

“Oh, come along,’’ he said, when she would have 
bidden him farewell at the station. “ I shall be off 
in a minute.’’ 

He had a carriage to himself — flung his bags and 
wraps in. 

“After all,” he said, “we need not have hurried ; 
we have" five minutes 5’et before the train starts. 
Don’t go.” 

“Where is my parcel?” asked Daphne suddenly. 
“ I gave it to you in the carriage. ' Have you left it 
behind?” 

“ No, it is here.” 

Daphne climbed up into the carriage and took it 
from him. 

“ There, sit down. How I wish you were coming 
with me: we should have it all to ourselves. You 
might just as well come a little way; you could get 
out and return by the next train. ” 

“ Oh ! no. Think what it would be if I did not 
get back until after Mr. Armitage had returned.” 
She turned pale at the thought. “ I had better get 
out now,” she added nervously. The next instant 
she had shrank back in dismay, crouching away out 
of sight. 

“He is there — see! Gerald himself! Oh! what 
am I to do? I am lost!” 


252 


CONSTANCE. 


253 


“Nonsense!” Monsieur de Maupas sprang to his 
feet, and leaned leisurely out of the window, block- 
ing up the aperture and effectually screening Daphne. 
A shriek — a loud whistle — and the train began to 
move. 

“Stop!” cried the girl wildly. “I must get out. 
For God’s sake, stop!” 

“It is impossible.” The young man threw him- 
self beside her, and coolly possessed himself of the 
trembling hands. “ It is too late now. We must 
just make the best of it. It is very unlucky that your 
husband should have returned earlier than you an- 
ticipated, but you cannot expect me to be heart- 
broken over it, since it has secured to me a couple 
more hours in your society. ” 

“ Of course I shall get down at the next station.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked in surprise. 
“This train does not stop until we reach Amiens.” 

Daphne grew as white as death. Then she faced 
him sternly. 

“Why did you lie to me?” she said. “You pro- 
posed that I should go as far as Creil, and return by 
the next train to Paris. If you knew that this was 
an express, you were wilfully deceiving me. ” 

he said, “my pretty why need you 

go back at all?” and he unfolded the diabolical plan 
he had been cogitating for months past. Fate had 
thrown the girl in his arms, and he never doubted 
but that by cajolery and sophistry he would keep 
her. But as Daphne listened her eyes gleamed an- 
grily, and she held her breath. She let him have 
his say, interrupting him by not so much as a word. 
Deceived by her manner, at last he flung his arm 
around her waist and pressed his lips to her soft face. 
To his intense surprise, the girl clenched her hand 
and struck him a sharp, sudden blow, wrenching her- 
self from his grasp. 

“Leave my husband for — you!” she cried. “A 


354 


CONSTANCE. 


man who has no spark of honor in his whole com- 
position — who stoops to trade upon a woman’s cre- 
dulity and weakness ! Coward that you are ! Never, 
never!” 

“One thing is certain,” remarked the Frenchman, 
with a sneer : “ your husband will hardly be prepared 
to pardon this escapade, and in that case what is to 
become of you? You will think better of it, I am 
sure you will, and instead of remaining at Amiens 
we will cross over to England.” 

Daphne lifted her eyes full of the scorn that filled 
her bosom. “ Is monsieur doing me the honor of 
wishing to make me his wife?” 

Raoul shrugged his shoulders. 

“My husband, will, of course, divorce me.” 

“We will wait and see what happens. Matters 
will arrange themselves.” 

“ And it is to the honor of such a man that I am 
to trust myself? No; I prefer to cast myself upon 
the mercy of my husband. I have disobeyed and 
deceived him, but he will believe in my innocence of 
all wish for wrong-doing.” Her voice broke, and 
she covered her face with her hands. How wicked 
she had been — how foolish! To do the girl justice, 
frivolous, and eaten up with vanity though she w^as, 
this was the sum and substance of her offending. 
Her stolen interviews had been charming, commend- 
ing themselves to her as much because of the spice 
of naughtiness and romance they contained as for 
the sake of the pretty compliments she received. 
The whole thing had been a huge joke in Daphne’s 
eyes. It was such fun to get ahead of Gerald, to 
laugh in her sleeve, seeing how easily she could 
hoodwink him ; but now her eyes filled with tears, 
hot tears of shame and mortification. By her own 
folly she had placed herself in her 'present position, 
and she had only her own culpability to thank for 
the insulting proposition this man had dared to make 


CONSTANCE. 


255 


her. She withdrew to the farthest corner, and 
turned her head steadily away. For fully half an 
hour Monsieur de Maupas argued and coaxed. 

He would marry her, he said, if she exacted it, 
and if the law freed her. Never a word said Daphne, 
but her lips straightened themselves into a long un- 
curving line, and the utter contempt she felt for her 
companion expressed itself in every line of her 
lovely little face. 

On rushed the train, bearing her every moment 
farther and farther away from her husband and her 
home. It was almost dark by the time they reached 
Amiens. Feeling dazed and stupefied. Daphne rose 
from her seat and made her way to the door. Mon- 
sieur dc Maupas sprang to the platform and held out 
his hand 'to help her to alight; but she pushed it 
aside and got out unassisted. She had no notion 
where to go, or what to do. All she desired was to 
free herself from his hated presence. Luckily she 
had her purse with her: she was not penniless. 

“ We had better go to ‘Le Due d’Orleans, ’ ” he said 
composedly. “ I believe it is a very good hotel.” 

Daphne did not deign to answer, but marched out 
of the station, closely followed by the young man. 
There were several fiacres waiting. Accosting the 
driver of one, she asked him if he could recommend 
a quiet and inexpensive hotel. A minute later she 
got in, and pulled the door to after her. 

“Come, Daphne, this is carrying things too far, ” 
cried Monsieur de Maupas angrily. “Of course I 
am coming with you.” 

“ I absolutely decline to permit you to do any such 
thing.” Daphne held her small head very high. 
“ Drive on,” she said to the coachman. 

But the young man was not to be shaken off so 
easily. He engaged another fiacre and followed as 
rapidly as possible. While she was still in the en- 
trance hall he came to her side. 


256 


CONSTANCE. 


“ Let US be friends, ” he said uneasily. “ I will 
urge nothing that is repugnant to you. I swear it.” 

Daphne looked him blankly in the face as if she- 
had never seen him before in her life. “’Monsieur 
evidently mistakes me for some one else,” she said 
in a loud clear voice, for the benefit of the landlady 
and a couple of servants. “ I have not the honor 
of his acquaintance,” and deliberately turned her 
back upon him. 

The next moment she had disappeared up the 
stairs. Raoul de Maupas swore fiercely and tugged 
at the ends of his long moustache ; but he was bound 
to confess himself defeated. 

“What a little devil the girl is! I should never 
have given her credit for so much spirit,” he mut- 
tered vexedly. 

Upstairs, with her door shut and locked, and a 
heavy bureau pushed close to it, to make it doubly 
secure. Daphne was sobbing wildly and unrestrain- 
edly. Now that she was alone, and had nothing to 
fear, her anger and pride melted away, and she felt 
the frightful position she was placed in. It would 
be impossible to return to Paris until the morning, 
and the poor child trembled at the thought of her 
husband’s anger. She was too miserable to go to 
bed, but sat shivering until morning, when she flung 
herself down and fell asleep, worn out with excite- 
ment and misery. When she awoke, it was past 
three o’clock, and she sprang up with a cry of con- 
sternation. She must have slept nine hours! No 
one had been near her; but something white on the 
carpet caught her eye. It was a letter thrust under 
the door. Before she opened it she knew from 
whom it came, and her heart sank within her. 

A night’s reflection had somewhat reassured Mon- 
sieur de Maupas. Daphne was English, he reasoned. 
He had taken her by surprise; she must have time 
to become reconciled to her position. But that in 


CONSTANCE. 


257 


the end she would yield and accompany him, he 
never doubted. Why not? She did not love her 
husband; indeed, she openly flouted and mocked 
him. She had been ready enough to betray his con- 
fidence and meet the man who proclaimed himself 
her lover. That she should seriously wish to draw 
back now was an absurdity. He never supposed it 
possible that she should feel outraged and indignant 
at his cold-blooded proposition. It was, to him, the 
natural climax; and since he was ready to meet her 
half-way, it puzzled him that she should, so late in 
the day, give herself airs and ape a modesty it was 
out of the question she could really feel. Therefore 
he wrote an amorous epistle, couched in terms 
which brought a hot blush to Daphne’s cheeks and 
smarting tears to her eyes. She would forgive him. 
They must not quarrel. She should be allowed to 
make her own terms, and might live where she 
pleased ; and he was her devoted lover. 

Daphne set '^er firm white teeth together, tore 
this composition into shreds and flung them on the 
floor. Raoul de Maupas waited in vain for his an- 
swer. 

He would not leave the hotel while she was there. 
It augured well that she had not returned to Paris 
earlier in the day. He did not know that it was 
from pure accident that she had not. 

Daphne, uncertain how to act, longing to return 
home, yet shrinking from her husband’s wrath and 
just anger, bethought her of Constance, and in 
her hour of need appealed to that womanly heart. 
After her telegram was sent, she grew more com- 
forted. Constance was so reliant, so sure. She , 
would tell her the whole truth — the shameful story 
from first to last — and leave herself in her hands. 

But there was another night to get through before 
her sister-in-law could arrive, and it was a very 
wan white-faced little girl, the ghost of the bloom- 
17 


258 


CONSTANCE. 


ing Daphne, who flung herself weeping into Con- 
stance’s arms. 

“You have come! Oh, how glad I am!” she cried 
hysterically. 

It was some time before Constance could gather a 
fair idea of all that had transpired, and her face 
grew graver as she listened. It would be very hard 
for Gerald to forgive. That Daphne should have 
remained two nights in the same hotel as Monsieur 
de Maupas was against her. 

“ I could not help it. I have never seen him. Oh, 
believe me, Constance. I have only opened my door 
twice, when they brought me something to eat. 
You will tell him this. It is the truth — indeed, in- 
deed it is. ” 

“ Is this man here still?” 

“ I don’t know,” sighed Daphne. “What does it 
matter?” 

Constance laid aside her bonnet and cloak and 
smoothed her hair. “Lie down and rest,” she said 
gently. “ Shut your eyes, and don’t fret. I shall 
be back in a short time — with good news, I trust.” 

“ Where are you going?” 

“I will tell you when I come back.” She kissed 
Daphne tenderly, and the girl turned the key in the 
lock again and lay down upon her bed. When Con- 
stance came back she was lying very quiet. Think- 
ing Daphne had fallen asleep, she sat down by the 
bedside to determine what her next move was to be. 
For she had failed in her first attempt. Monsieur 
de Maupas, with the utmost politeness, absolutely 
refused what she demanded: a written statement 
that he had held no communication with Daphne 
since their arrival at Les Trois Princes, and an un- 
varnished account of how she had chanced to be in 
his company. 

With many regrets, and bows and smirks. Mon- 
sieur de Maupas was firm. Madame had voluntarily 


CONSTANCE. 


259 


come away with him, he said, and if she had changed 
her mind since, it was a fact to be deplored. As for 
himself, he should make a little tour. He had long 
wished to go into Italy, and he would not return 
until this little unpleasantness had passed over. 
Then he opened the door, and there was nothing left 
but to walk out. Within two hours Monsieur de 
Maupas was on his way to England. The game was 
up. He did not break his heart over Daphne’s treat- 
ment of him ; it affected his temper a little, his ap- 
petite not at all. In a word, he accepted the inevit- 
able, and did not allow himself to be duly disturbed. 
People such as he rarely do. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


The hours wore themselves away, and still Daphne 
slept, and still Constance kept watch by her side. 
How quiet she was — her face flushed, and her little 
hands hot and burning. Constance was alarmed, and 
tried to rouse her. Daphne opened her eyes and fixed 
them dully upon her, and then closed them again. 
Before another nightfall she was tossing and moan- 
ing deliriously. 

“Oh, how thankful I am I came!” Constance said 
to the doctor, who was hastily summoned. “ Poor 
child, poor child!” 

Daphne was blessed with a good constitution, al- 
though she was so fragile, and was soon out of dan- 
ger ; but she was very weak, and would require the 
greatest care for a long time to come. All this time 
nothing had been heard of Mr. Armitage. 

While Daphne lay dangerously ill, Constance dare 
not leave her, and she would trust to no pen-and-ink 
medium. She must see her brother-in-law herself. 

“ Get well quickly, my child, and leave me to 
make your peace with Gerald,” she said. 

The tears coursed down Daphne’s pale cheeks. 
“ He will never forgive me,” she sobbed. “ I know 
he never can.” 

It was six days since Daphne left her home when 
Constance found herself at Mr. Armitage’s house. 
He was at home, and hearing voices, opened the 
door of the salon . 

“I bring you news of Daphne, Gerald,” she said, 
extending her hand, but he did not offer to take it. 

260 


CONSTANCE. 


261 


“You know!” he ejaculated. “Have you heard 
from her, then?” 

“ She has been with me.” 

“ With you? Where, then, has that scoundrel ” 

“ Hush — be patient, and I will tell you all.” 

It was a pitiful tale. Gloss it over as carefully as 
she might, the erring girl had gone wofully astray, 
and Gerald’s face grew hard and rigid. 

• “Why have I heard ^ nothing for so long? Surely 
you must have known, Constance, the anxiety and 
suspense I must be enduring. ” 

She told of Daphne’s illness, and how terribly 
weak she was still. 

“She sent you a message. Shall I give it to 
you?” 

“ No.” Mr. Armitage began to pace up and down 
the room. “ I thank God she is not the guilty wretch 
I believed her to be ; but by her own confession she 
is a wicked, treacherous woman, and wife of mine no 
longer. Let her do as she pleases, and go where she 
will. She shall never come back here.” 

“Think what you are saying,” pleaded Constance. 
“ If you could only know how penitent she is, and 
what a lesson she has had. Believe me, there is a 
chance of happiness for you both in the future.” 

“ Life holds nothing for me henceforth.” 

“ Be pitiful ! remember how little she knew of the 
world. She was like a child who plays with fire all 
unconscious of danger. This man flattered her, 
made her believe that he was desperately enamoured 
of her, appealed to her vanity, not her heart. When 
the veil was torn away, and she saw him as he was — 
a vile seducer — she shrank away in horror and loath- 
ing. Now — O Gerald, it lies in your hands — the 
future. You will forgive and take her back?” 

“ I cannot. Constance, you don’t know what you 
are asking. I loved and trusted her. I left her with 
my kisses on her lips, and she — she kissed me back. 


262 


CONSTANCE. 


kiss for kiss, and so, like another Judas, betrayed 
me. It is beyond me to forgive. ” 

“Is your love, then, dead? Was it so slight, so 
poor a thing that at the first breath of dishonor it 
perished?” 

His head fell on his hands. 

“ Shall I tell you what she bid me say, Gerald?” 

“ No, Constance. The time for pretty speeches and 
soft words has gone by. My mind is made up. I 
will never voluntarily see my wife again. She has 
outraged me beyond the power of man to forgive. I 
believe in her innocence, so far as actual criminality 
goes ; but I could never trust her again. A life spent 
side by side would be intolerable for us both.” 

Constance rose from her chair and crossed the room 
softly to his side. “ I must give you her message, 
because I promised to do so,” she said gently. 
“ After that, if you still wish it, I will go back to 
her. ‘Tell him that I know and see how wrong I 
have been,’ she said, ‘and ask him to pardon me for 
the sake of our unborn child. ’ ” 

“What!” He sprang to his feet, the color flood- 
ing his face, and he seized Constance’s hands in both 
his own, wrung them hard, and turned away that 
she might not see the hot tears that were blistering 
his cheeks. 

Gerald Armitage and his sister-in-law arrived in 
Amiens late that same evening. Daphne had missed 
her kind nurse terribly, and was nervously awaiting 
her sentence. She felt weak and ill, and when the 
door opened and she saw her husband standing on 
the threshold, she put out her arms with a little cry 
of gladness, and fell upon his breast. Constance shut 
the door softly, and left them together. 

“ It was worth coming for,” she whispered, as she 
went slowly down the corridor to her own room. 
“ There is a chance of happiness for them both now, 
and this terrible lesson will not have been in vain. ” 


CONSTANCE. 


263 


Then, for almost the first time since she left 
England, she allowed her thoughts to stray to Basil, 
and a little anxiety stole over her. She had written 
one brief note to him, explaining her absence some- 
what vaguely, and giving him her address at Les 
Trois Princes, touching lightly on domestic troubles, 
and fixing an early day for her return home. To 
this no answer had come. It was a little strange, 
too, that Miss Baillie had not written. Probably 
the morrow would bring letters from both. But as 
peace and sunshine came back to Daphne and her 
husband, a dim foreboding of trouble in store for 
herself took possession of her, and when two days 
passed away and still there was silence, she could 
control herself no longer, and wired to England. 

“ Is all well? I am anxious.” 

But that, too, remained unanswered. “ I must go 
back; I am quite sure something is wrong,” she 
said, with a trembling lip. “ Dear Daphne, do not 
ask me to linger. I must go. ” The following day Mr. 
and Mrs. Gerald Armitage returned to Paris, and the 
next train bore Constance en route to England. 

It was not until long afterward that Daphne 
learned what had transpired after her elopement. 
Her husband had not seen her at the station, and 
hurried home blithe and light-hearted. To his sur- 
prise he found his wife missing, but beyond a mo- 
mentary disappointment he attached no importance 
to it, expecting every moment that she would return. 
But when the hours passed by, and still she was 
absent, he grew extremely anxious. Upon inquiry, 
he found that she had gone out early in the after- 
noon, ostensibly to Madame Hortense. Mr. Armi- 
tage put on his hat, and in a few moments found 
himself in the presence of that lady. 

Madame looked a good deal startled and not a 
little guilty, and her manner confirmed his suspicions 
that something was wrong. 


264 


CONSTANCE. 


“ She was here, then, you say, and remained — how 
long?” 

“O monsieur, I forget — I did not notice. It 
might be one hour, or two, or more.” 

“ Well, as she is not here now she must have gone 
away some time. Do you know where she went?” 

‘‘I, monsieur — how should I know? She told me 
nothing — not one word. Mon Dieu! why for do you 
come to me? I know not where madame is. It is 
nothing to me. She meet her friend, and they go 
away together. I know no more.” 

“ Her friend?” 

Mais oui — Madame de Maupas. Was that a 
crime?” 

Hortense was puzzled. Why a husband should 
object to his wife leaving her rooms with another 
lady she could not understand. That she must be 
discreet as to the visits of Monsieur Raoul was quite 
another matter ; but she did not think it necessary 
to hold her tongue about anything else. Indeed, 
she believed that she was helping Mrs. Armitage by 
proclaiming the fact of her being with Madame de 
Maupas and throwing him completely off the scent. 
But she had supplied the missing link all unwittingly. 
Within five minutes Mr. Armitage was within 
Madame de Maupas’ presence. 

“ Where is my wife?” he shouted. 

“ She is not here. Is she, then, not at home?” 

Felicie looked dismayed. If not, where was she? 

“ She has been here?” 

“Yes.” Madame de Maupas acknowledged that 
she had, but had taken her departure shortly before 
eight o’clock, and the lady disclaimed any further 
knowledge of Mrs. Armitage’s movements. 

“ Where is your brother?” angrily demanded Mr. 
Armitage, fearing he hardly knew what. 

“ He is not in Paris. He is away on business.” 


CONSTANCE. 265 

At this intelligence the unhappy man hardly knew 
whether to be relieved or still more anxious. 

“You can tell me nothing, then?" 

“ I regret to say that I cannot. " 

Madame de Maupas rose to signify that the inter- 
view was at an end, for she was a little afraid of this 
stem man, who looked at her so searchingly and 
accusingly ; and perhaps her conscience was pricking 
her a little. 

Mr. Armitage passed out on to the stone corridor 
and began slowly to descend the steps. Waiting for 
him, by the concierge's room, was AngMe. He would 
not have noticed her, but that she slipped forward 
and laid her hand on his arm. 

“ I can tell you where your wife is," she said, in a 
low venomous whisper. “ She left this house with 
Monsieur de Maupas. If she has not returned to 
her home, she is with him still. " 

“ What grounds have you for making such an asser- 
tion? Do you know what you are implying?" 

“ If you doubt what I tell you, read this," and she 
thrust into his hand the letter written by Daphne 
— which she had intercepted. “That was sent to 
Monsieur Raotfl, and it w^s not the first, nor the 
second. You must draw your own conclusions as I 
have done." 

Like a man in a dream, Gerald Armitage staggered 
into the street. All through the long hours of that 
night he sat and thought, and brooded, and argued 
with himself, until his brain reeled and his senses 
grew dim. Inch by inch the ground was slipping 
from beneath his feet, and his eyes were slowly 
opening to the sad and bitter truth that was staring 
him in the face. 

“I wonder why she hated me so," cried poor 
Daphne, when her husband told her all this. " She 
never liked me from the first; but I don’t think I 
ever did her an injury. " 


266 


CONSTANCE. 


No, she had only stolen her lover from her — been 
guilty of the one unpardonable sin in a woman’s 
eyes. That was all. They talked for hours, Daphne 
and her husband, she with her hand locked in his, 
and her bright head pillowed on his shoulder. 

“ We will have no concealments and no misunder- 
standings henceforth,” said Gerald. “You will be 
frank and open with me in all things, and I will 
strive to be patient. ” 

“Oh,” cried Daphne, with a sudden gush of peni- 
tent tears, “ it cuts me to the heart to hear you speak 
so kindly to me. I, who have acted so ill. I can 
never, never forgive myself for my wicked folly.” 

Mr. Armitage gathered the little figure closer to 
him. 

“ Love me, my wife,” he whispered. “ Only learn 
to love me, dear.” 

“ Oh ! I do, I do. I never knew it before. I 
tried to tell myself that you were harsh and cold, 
but all the time, deep down in my heart, there was 
a feeling that I can never have for any one else, and 
now I know that it was love.” 

A tear fell on the small shapely hand, but Daphne’s 
eyes were bright and clear as she flung her soft arms 
upward and laid them around his neck. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Full of vague misgivings, Constance found her- 
self at her own door. It was early morning, and the 
household was not yet astir. Phoebe looking very 
sleepy, with a suspicion of having huddled her clothes 
on hurriedly, drew back the bolt, and admitted her 
mistress. 

“Is all well?” asked Mr. Armitage, and without 
pausing for a reply pushed open the door of the 
dining-room. There, on the mantel-shelf, were her 
own letters addressed to Miss Baillie — unopened. 
“Oh! what has happened?” she cried. “Where is 
Miss Baillie? Send her to me at once.” 

“ If you please, ’m, she’s gone. She just packed 
every blessed thing and took herself off. There isn’t 
a sign of her nowhere. ” And Phoebe looked around, 
as if perchance a limb or an eye might possibly be 
hidden somewhere about. “ Poor little Miss Eva, 
she fretted sorely, so I took her round to her aunt, 
and she’s been there all the while.” 

“Good Heavens! What could have possessed her 
to be absent from her post at such a time? Did she 
say why she went, Phoebe?” The girl’s face grew 
scarlet, and she rolled the corner of her apron be- 
tween her finger and thumb nervously. 

“Well, you see, ma’am, we none of us knew 
whether you’d come back here or not, and I suppose 
that having her living to get, she has to be particular 
as to where her situation is. And if you please, 
ma’am. I’m all alone, except my cousins, who’ve 
been staying with me: I were that lonesome of a 
night. Cook, she’s gone, too.” 

“Were they all bewitched?” cried Constance, star- 
267 


268 


CONSTANCE. 


ing blankly into the pink abashed cheeks of the little 
serving-maid. 

“ But I couldn’t do such a mean thing as to go off, 
too,” continued Phoebe, evidently taking great 
praise to herself for the sacrifice she was making. 
“ I made up my mind that no matter what you was, 
I’d just bide till you come home.” 

“What I was! Kindly explain yourself.” Con- 
stance felt that she was growing cold and numb. 
Her heart beat dully, and her senses seemed dazed. 

“ Well, it ain’t a nice thing for me to talk about, 
but when you went off with Lord Hardstock, we 
none of us knew good lord, she’s dead!” 

Constance had fallen from her chair in a dead 
faint. When she came back to life Phoebe was sob- 
bing wildly, smacking her hands smartly, and had 
evidently emptied the contents of a pitcher of water 
upon her, for she was dripping wet. With an effort 
she pulled herself upright, and presently was able to 
walk upstairs to her own room. Phoebe waited for 
her in silence, save for an occasional sob. 

When the clinging draperies were removed, and 
Constance was beginning to feel more like herself, 
she said kindly to the girl : 

“ My poor Phoebe, you must not remain any longer 
in the frightful error into which you have fallen. 
Lord Hardstock — Lord Hardstock accompanied me 
to Dover the night I left home, because it was late 
for me to travel alone. I received a telegram which 
you yourself brought me from a — a dear friend, who 
required my presence at once, and I had barely time 
to catch the train. I have been by a sick bed ever 
since, and his lordship returned to town the same 
night.” 

“ Then you — you didn’t ” 

“Hush, for pity’s sake!” Constance held up her 
hand appealingly. The shameful suspicion must 
not be put into words. She could not bear it. 


CONSTANCE. 


269 


“Well, I never!” Phoebe drew a long breath, and 
then once more dissolved into tears. “ What a 
wicked girl cook and me have been !” she sobbed 
inconsequently ; and however shaky the grammar 
might be, there was no doubt whatever about the 
regret in Phoebe’s honest heart. 

“ Go and make me a cup of tea,” said her mistress, 
longing to be alone. 

Phoebe went, but was terribly disappointed to find 
that Mrs. Armitage barely put her lips to the cup, 
and set it down again without drinking it. 

“ Has — has any one called since I have been away?” 

“No, ma’am; I think not.” 

“No one — not a gentleman?” 

“Yes, to be sure — you hadn’t been gone half an 
hour. Miss Baillie, she saw him in the drawing- 
room. He didn’t call again. I can get his card in 
a minute.” 

“ No matter. I know who the gentleman was. 
Was there no message? Oh, you say Miss Baillie 
saw him. Have you her address?” 

“That I haven’t. We were all in too much of a 
stew to think of it. She’s never been near the place, 
ma’am, since, and she looked that bad and ill when 
she went she might have been a ghost. Poor thing, 
she were upset. ” 

“ I think you must all have taken leave of your 
senses,” said Constance haughtily, as the actual 
meaning of it all came home to her. “ In an hour’s 
time you shall take a note round to Clarges Street. 
I must see my sister. ” 

Within a very few minutes after receiving the few 
cold, terse lines which Constance dispatched to that 
lady, Mrs. Strangways had tied her bonnet on and 
was ready for departure. 

She entered Constance’s room hurriedly; but after 
Phoebe’s description of her mistress’s condition she 
was considerably taken aback when Mrs. Armitage 


270 


CONSTANCE. 


folded her hands together and refused to shake that 
of her sister, motioning her to a chair, but standing 
herself. 

“ No,” she said haughtily. “ If you have believed 
this vile thing that has been said of me — if you could 
have found it in you for one single moment to give 
ear to such abomination — you are sister of mine no 
longer. Speak, Rebecca. ” 

Mrs. Strangways looked extremely uncomfortable. 

“ My dear Constance, there is no use in riding the 
high horse,” said she. “ You must acknowledge that 
the whole affair looked strange. You laid aside 
your widow’s weeds, and appeared in muslin and 
laces. Lord Hardstock was invited to dine with you 
Ute-a-tete^ and you went away together, leaving not 
the faintest word of explanation of your so doing. 
Moreover, there has not been a line from you since 
to any of us. What were we to think?” 

“ And you — my sister — who hav6 known me from 
my babyhood, could so misjudge me! God forgive 
you, Rebecca!” 

“ I did not believe that — that you had really — I 
mean, I supposed, of course, that you would return 
as Lord Hardstock’s wife,” amended Mrs. Strang- 
ways appealingly. Constance’s lip curled. 

“You did me that scanty justice! I suppose I 
ought to be grateful to you. Now, after condemning 
me unheard, have the goodness to listen to my jus- 
tification of what, after all, however black it might 
appear, was the most natural thing in the world. 
To you I may tell the truth ; but to others, for the 
sake of the poor erring girl herself, I must be 
dumb.” And Mrs. Armitage told the tale of 
Daphne’s flight, her appeal to her sister-in-law, her 
subsequent illness and reconciliation with her hus- 
band. As Rebecca listened a little quiver passed 
over her face. 

“I was wrong,” she said humbly. “But, O 


CONSTANCE. 


271 


Constance, when the days went by and you made no 
sign, I did — I confess I did — believe evil of you. It 
seemed such an extraordinary thing that you should 
have left your home with Lord Hardstock in the way 
you did. You will forgive me, sister?” 

“ Oh yes, I suppose so. ” Constance spoke drearily. 
Her heart felt breaking within her. What had she 
done to deserve this ignominy? 

“You have heard nothing of Miss Baillie? She 
was in a dreadful hurry to leave the house, where, 
at least, she invariably met with kindness and con- 
sideration; but, as Phoebe reminded me, she had 
her character to consider.” 

“ No, not a word. She never so much as bade 
good-by to Eva, who has been happy enough with 
me, and is a more docile child than she used to be.” 

Then Constance broke down. She laid her head 
on the cushions of the sofa and wept bitterly. 

“ Let her come to me,” she said. “ My darling — 
the one thing on earth I have to love and cherish ! 
She, at least, will not wrong and misjudge her 
mother.” 

“Constance, you must make allowances,” pleaded 
Mrs. Strangways. “We none of us wanted to think 
ill of you, and a few words would have prevented it 
all.” 

But Constance wept on. There was a horrible 
dread upon her, which she could not give voice to — 
a foreboding of what was yet to come. 

“ What became of Lord Hardstock after you left, 
I wonder?” asked Rebecca. “He has not been heard 
of at the Albany. Mr. Strangways went to make 
inquiries.” 

“ I don’t know; he made no mention of his move- 
ments to me, and I was not in the very least degree 
interested in them. O Rebecca, you must have 
been mad to dream for an instant that I had left my 
home with him ! — a man whom I loathe and despise — 


272 


CONSTANCE. 


a man who, as you well know, I have refused to 
marry. The thing carried denial on the face of it. " 

Poor Mrs. Strangways could only miserably re- 
iterate her former plea that“ it looked very strange. ” 

That night, Constance cried herself to sleep, with 
Eva’s soft little body pressed closely in her arms. 
Never had she felt so desolate, so sad. The days 
wore away, and Miss Baillie made no sign, nor was 
there any news of Lord Hardstock. 

Constance both looked and felt ill. Her limbs 
ached, and she seemed weighed down, dragging her- 
self about with difficulty; her head throbbed and 
she could not sleep. Rebecca came every day to 
see her, and made no secret of her uneasiness ; but 
Constance declared that nothing was amiss. 

“ It has been an awful shock to her,” said Rebecca 
to her husband. “ Really, she seems to feel it more 
than that disgraceful affair with Cyril.” 

“ Perhaps there is more yet to learn,” remarked 
Mr. Strangways, fondling his chin and looking away 
over his wife’s head. 

“ Now, that is so like you ; you do love to be 
vague. What more can there be to know?” 

“ If Constance was not expecting Lord Hardstock 
to dinner that night, who was to be her visitor?” 
asked Mr. Strangways quietly. 

“ Upon my word, I never thought about it. Who 
could it have been?” 

“ She did not tell you, I presume?” 

“ No, I am sure she did not, or I should have re- 
collected it. Constance has so few visitors.” 

“Your sister had exchanged her mourning dress 
for white, left off her widow’s cap — in a word, pro- 
claimed to her household that she was a sorrowing 
widow no longer,” continued Mr. Strangways in a 
level voice. “ Some one was invited to a tHe-h-tete 
repast, which she was prevented from enjoying by 
the arrival of Daphne’s inopportune telegram. To 


CONSTANCE. 


273 


my mind the whole thing lies in a nutshell. In this 
case it is cherchez Vhomme^ and you will have the key 
to Constance’s ill-health and depression of spirits.” 

“ I should not wonder if you are right,” murmured 
Rebecca, and after that she sat lost in thought for a 
long time. Who could Constance’s visitor have 
been? Her curiosity got so much the upper hand of 
her that a day or two later she put the question 
point-blank to her sister. Constance did not color, 
nor did the hand that held the needle tremble in the 
slightest. She lifted her head and met her sister’s 
gaze unflinchingly and with a steady stare that some- 
what nonplussed Rebecca. 

“ I prefer not to say,” she remarked quietly. 

“ In Heaven’s name, why not?” 

“My dear Rebecca, I object to discuss the subject. ” 

“Well,” cried Mrs. Strangways, fairly losing her 
temper, “if you chose to remain silent you must 
abide by any conclusion we may come to regarding 
the matter, and have only yourself to thank if we 
are wrong.” 

A wan smile flitted across Constance’s face. 
“ That would be dreadful — I fear I should never sur- 
vive it,” she said, and suddenly astonished her sister 
by laughing a harsh, discordant laugh that had no 
music in it. 

“For the future, I walk my own way,” she added, 
“ Since rectitude of conduct and a perfectly blame- 
less life count for nothing in the estimation of my 
friends, they can now take me as they find me, and 
whether they praise or blame it will be all one to 
me, for I am absolutely indifferent in the matter.” 

18 


CHAPTER XL. 


Few men realize how difficult it is for a woman to 
take the initiative. If Basil St. Quentin had left 
but a written line, although it had been but of the 
bitterest reproach, it would have been easier to meet 
and fight than utter silence. 

That he, too, believed her guilty, Constance was 
sadly forced into perceiving, and the knowledge al- 
most broke her heart. True, there was nothing be- 
tween them — no vows on either side to bind; and 
yet he had asked her to be his wife, and she had not 
said him nay. He must have known that she loved 
him. Was he still in London, or had he returned 
to Paris? Racked with doubts and misery, the poor 
soul penned a note to Daphne, in which she asked if 
she had heard anything of St. Quentin, and when 
the reply lay before her, her hand trembled so much 
that she could hardly open it. Alas! Her worst 
misgivings were realized. The man she loved had 
gone to South America. 

“No one knows why,” wrote Daphne. “He sent 
a message for all his belongings, gave up his rooms, 
and started there and then. But he always was an 
erratic fellow. “ 

The letter fell on Constance’s lap, and bitter tears 
forced themselves to her eyes. So this was the end, 
and the leaf might be doubled down and turned 
over. Life looked very gray and sad to the dis- 
appointed woman. 

Two months dragged themselves away, and then 
274 


CONSTANCE. 


275 


Lord Hardstock reappeared on the scene. He 
strolled leisurely into Mrs. Strangways’ drawing- 
room as if it were but yesterday since he was last 
there, and Rebecca stared at him as if he were a 
ghost. 

“You!” she cried. “Where under the sun have 
you been?” 

“I owe you a thousand apologies,” he said. “I 
expect to find I am in disgrace with all my friends; 
but I am a bad hand at letter-writing, as you well 
know. I have been at Greystone with two or three 
fellows.” 

“For all this time?” asked Mrs. Strangways se- 
verely, for she did not believe this pleasing little 
fiction. 

“ Well, not the whole of the time since you and I 
met, certainly. You remember, I dare say, that I 
had the pleasure of accompanying your sister part of 
the way on her return journey to Amiens. On my 
return I met an old chum, who asked me to join him 
on a walking tour, which I did. We had beastly 
weather, and the whole thing was a fiasco. Never 
was so vexed with myself in my life. My friend 
wouldn’t turn back, and I could hardly leave him 
alone, so we managed to get through three weeks of 
utter martyrdom, and look as if it were the most 
delightful thing in the world to get wet through to 
the skin at least every twenty-four hours, with every 
bone in our bodies aching. But it came to an end, 
as everything must do, sooner or later, and then I 
went down to Greystone to recruit, and — well — here 
I am.” 

Mrs. Strangways was puzzled and remained si- 
lent. 

“Now, tell me all the news,” cried his lordship. 
“ In the first place, how is Mrs. Armitage?” 

“Not well, I am sorry to say; but she has had 
enough worry to account for it. That ungrateful 


276 


CONSTANCE. 


girl, Miss Baillie, ran away the very day after she 
went to Paris. ” 

“You surprise me! Ran away! When did she 
go? It is strange I have heard nothing. Really I 
begin to think there must be something a little 
wrong here,” he continued, tapping his forehead, 
significantly. “ You remember how oddly she acted 
once before?” 

“ I do. It is a great pity that you should have 
recommended a young person of whom you knew so 
little to my sister. Lord Hardstock.” 

“ You cannot regret it, my dear madam, more than 
I do. But what little acquaintance I had with the 
girl warranted my believing her to be in every way 
suited to what Mrs. Armitage was requiring at the 
time. She has not behaved well, certainly.” 

“We will not discuss the matter. It is not a 
pleasant subject. I do not supppose we shall ever 
hear of her again. ” 

Devoutly did his lordship echo that wish. On the 
following day he called at Kensington, but, a good 
deal to his chagrin, he was not admitted. 

“Mrs. Armitage is seeing no one to-day,” he was 
informed, and although he scribbled a hasty line 
beneath his name and sent it up to Constance, in 
blissful confidence that the rule would be relaxed 
for him, he had to go away disappointed. 

“ Mrs. Armitage regretted that she was unable to 
see Lord Hardstock.” 

“ Is she ill, Phoebe?” 

Phoebe cast her eyes down demurely and answered 
that she did not know. Inwardly fuming, his lord- 
ship went away. At the end of the week he called 
again, but again Constance was not visible. Two 
days later, he made the attempt once more, and this 
time it began dimly to dawn upon him that Mrs. 
Armitage did not desire to see him, and the suspicion 
nettled and wounded him. The moment he reached 


CONSTANCE. 


277 


his chambers he sat down and wrote a note, in which 
he expressed hi's surprise at the reception he had 
met, and asked for an explanation. 

By the next evening’s post he got it. 

“ Scandal had coupled their names together in a 
most unpleasant way,” Mrs. Armitage wrote, “and 
she was therefore reluctantly obliged to ask Lord 
Hardstock to discontinue his visits to Kensington. ” 

Nothing could have been colder or more terse. 

“She suspects.” Beneath his thick moustache 
his lordship uttered an unparliamentary word. By 
and by he betook himself to Mrs. Strangways for 
sympathy. 

“ I am not surprised that Constance has turned 
the cold shoulder upon you,” said that lady, 
“ although in my own opinion she is acting in the 
most absurd manner. But still, considering every- 
thing ” 

“ I am entirely in the dark, remember. Will you 
be so good as to enlighten me as to what I am ac- 
cused of, and how through my instrumentality Mrs. 
Armitage’s good name has suffered.” 

And Mrs. Strangways briefly narrated the actual 
facts. Lord Hardstock appeared deeply concerned. 
“ It is abominable that such a report should have 
been circulated,” he said, “but don’t you think it 
is a little hard that the blame should rest upon me, 
and that I, wholly innocent as I am, must pay the 
penalty?” 

“ I do,” replied Rebecca, pulling at her thread so 
angrily that it broke; “but it is not with me you 
have to deal, and Constance is made of different stuff 
altogether. If she says she will not permit your 
visits, you may rest assured that she will* keep her 
word, for she is as obstinate as a mule when she 
gets a fancy into her head.” 

“ But a word or two from you, ” insinuated Lord 
Hardstock. 


278 


CONSTANCE. 


“ I will do my best ; but I will tell you candidly 
that I have not the faintest hope of succeeding. 
Constance is as hard as granite with me, as with 
the rest of the world, and as cold as steel Why do 
you love her?” she asked, suddenly raising her eyes 
and looking full into his. face. “I confess, I cannot 
understand it. She never has and never will care 
for you. She is absolutely incapable of appreciat- 
ing the sacrifices you would make for her. She is 
not a pretty woman — not exceedingly pretty ; she is 
not——” 

” She is the most tantalizing and vexatious woman 
God ever created. I love her for herself, because 
she is Constance. I can say no more. I love her 
because she is pure and good, and miles above any 
other woman I ever met.” Lord Hardstock seized 
his hat, and a minute later had hailed a hansom and 
was driven rapidly away. 

And where was Emily — erring, broken-hearted 
Emily? Her first impulse was to go away, where 
she would not be reminded of her lover’s falseness 
and treachery. So she packed her boxes, and as one 
in a dream left the home where she had spent so 
many quiet, peaceful, if not actually happy months. 
Her life seemed to have come to a sudden stop, and 
it was difficult to take up the broken threads and 
weave them anew. 

She had been tricked, hoodwinked, and used as a 
tool to further Lord Hardstock’s vile schemes. ‘She 
wept and gnashed her teeth, and beat the air with 
her fists in impotent rage. Emily was eminently 
practical, and her grief and anger did not prevent 
her counting over the contents of her purse, to find 
how large, a sum stood between her and starvation. 

“ I can’t work; the energy is gone out of me,” she 
cried drearily. And for days she sat in a sort of 
stupor, hardly moving; eating when driven to it by 
sheer hunger; sleeping when fatigue weighed down 


CONSTANCE. 


279 


her eyelids — dazed, stupefied. And then she roused 
herself. She still had her voice, and although she 
was out of practice, that could soon be remedied. 
She hired a piano and set to work at once, and be- 
fore a month had passed over her head she had 
secured an engagement. 

But it was dreary work. Ambition was dead 
within her. When they praised the rich, sweet 
tones, she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. 
What did it matter? She would die if she did not 
work ; her voice was a means of support ; therefore 
she sang. She cared nothing at all whether the 
talent she possessed was appreciated or not. She 
was simply a machine to grind out work adequate 
to the sum paid to her. Her beauty was going fast. 
Her cheeks were hollow, lines had traced themselves 
upon her face, and her brow was wrinkled. She 
would not allow her thoughts to dwell upon the past, 
and shrank from anything that might bring it to 
her memory. Truly it was Death in Life. 

“ And I may live fifty years longer! Oh, my God, 
have pity upon me!” cried the wretched girl. 

One night when her work was done, she was start- 
ing for what she called “ home.” It began to rain, 
big drops plashing on the pavement. ‘‘ I cannot 
afford to be ill,” reflected Emily, and she hailed a 
passing omnibus, and got in. At the further end 
sat Dr. Dale. She would have retreated, but he 
was too quick for her. He seized her hand joyfully. 

“What a lucky accident!” he cried, his face 
aglow with surprise and pleasure. Well, she might 
as well sit down. Fate was too strong for her. She 
sank into a place next to his and ceased to struggle. 
By and by, she had no longer the wish to do so. 
The kindly voice, the gentle words, full of interest 
in her, pregnant with feeling and sympathy — they 
were very grateful. She turned and involuntarily 
looked up at him. How strong, how manly, how 


28 o 


CONSTANCE. 


handsome he was ! And yet, with all the perversity 
of her sex, she had bestowed not so much as a grain 
of affection upon him. Almost she could find it in 
her to be a little pitiful, with an odd sort of self- 
pity. 

“ Where are you living?” he asked. 

She told him, although she had made up her mind 
that she would not do so. 

“ And you are happy?” 

“ No,” with a little quivering sigh. ‘‘ I can never 
be happ^ again. ” 

He passed over the despairing words as if he had 
not heard them, but they had sunk deep down into 
his heart. “ Poor, friendless girl !” he was thinking, 
as she held out her hand in farewell. 

“This is my corner — I get down here. Good- 
by. ” 

“ I am coming with you. ” And again she made 
no protest. In silence they walked, side by side, 
until she reached her own door. 

“ My secret is safe with you. You will give my 
address to no one?” 

“You have my word. Good-night, child.” 

“ Good-night. God bless you.” 

There was something like a tear in Emily’s eyes as 
she ascended the ricketty little staircase to her own 
room. But on the morrow she took herself to task. 
How imprudent she had been! What could have 
possessed her to reveal her whereabouts? She could 
no longer count on seclusion and privacy. True, 
she might leave the neighborhood. But she did 
not do so. And when, -each night as she turned the 
corner of the street, she walked leisurely and slowly 
to her own door, perhaps there was a little disap- 
pointment in her heart. 

And yet it could not have been Dr. Dale she half 
hoped to see, because she had herself extracted a 
promise that he would not annoy her in any way. 


CHAPTER XLL 


It was a pitiless night, the rain falling in torrents, 
and a suspicion of thunder in the air. Dr. Dale con- 
gratulated himself that his rounds were over, and 
that there was no urgent call necessitating his leav- 
ing his cosy study again that evening. He had a 
pile of books before him, but he had scarcely turned 
a page of the one that lay open upon his knee, for 
his thoughts had strayed to Emily Baillie — mys- 
terious, bewitching Emily. 

Dr. Dale rarely trusted himself to dwell on the 
subject that had so fascinated him a while ago — 
mesmerism, and the occult influence individuals exer- 
cise over each, other. The human will — intangible, 
subtle, yet so powerful that it could override and 
master a weaker one: an interesting study, perplex- 
ing and most wonderful. 

Dr. Dale rose, and drew a couple of volumes toward 
him, opening them in a half abashed and hesitating 
fashion — half afraid, conscious that intermeddling 
might be dangerous, and yet unable to resist the 
temptation. Page after page* he turned, and the 
hours ticked themselves away, and still he read on. 

The rain fell more heavily, and a dull rumbling 
proclaimed that the storm was at hand. 

A loud ring at the surgery bell caused him to 
spring to his feet. He crossed the little hall and 
flung open the door. 

A woman pushed past him into the room beyond, 
her cloak streaming with water. It was Emily 
Baillie ! At this hour ! 


281 


282 


CONSTANCE. 


Dr Dale shot the bolts in the outer door, and fol- 
lowed her mechanically. , Neither of them had uttered 
a word. Emily tore the veil from her face, and 
then he saw how pale she was. She was evidently 
ill and in need of his services. He came to her side, 
unfastened her heavy cloak and shook it carefully, 
and then he poured a few drops of sal volatile into a 
glass and held it toward her. She motioned it aside. 

“ You must think me mad to come here at such a 
time,” she said, with a feeble attempt at a smile; 
“ but I — I could not spend another night of torture 
such as I have been living through the past week, 
and I thought you would tell me what to do.” She 
looked up at him wistfully. 

“You cannot sleep?” 

She shook her head. “ I lay and toss, and turn, 
and think. O God! I am thinking, thinking until 
my brain reels and my senses fail me, and if for a 
moment I lose myself the horror of my dreams 
wakens me. It is killing me ! Give me something, 
for pity’s sake. Surely there is some drug powerful 
enough to deaden feeling and — memory.” 

There was a mist before Dr. Dale’s eyes and a 
huskiness in the voice that answered her. “ There 
is no medicine potent enough to do what you want, 
my poor child. I know of none.” 

The girl stretched her. hands toward him. She 
was not acting. For once in her life she had for- 
gotten self. She put out her poor shaking hands. 
“Then Heaven help me!” she murmured, “for I 
can bear no more.” Feebly she groped for her bon- 
net, found it, and would have put it on and gone 
away, but he pushed her back in her chair. 

“Rest!” he said imperatively. “Lie back there 
and I will fetch you something that will ease you for 
the moment. ” He came back with a decanter of wine 
and a couple of glasses. 

“There,” he said cheerily, “you will drink some 


CONSTANCE 283 

of this to please me, and you will feel so much 
better by and by ” 

She let him pour some out and drank it, and when 
he saw the color was ebbing back to her lips and 
cheeks he drew his chair close to hers and took both 
her hands into his firm clasp. 

“Emily,” he said, “listen to me, dear. You are 
unstrung; your nerves are all to pieces; you want 
care and good nursing, or I shudder to think what 
may be in store for you. Will you give yourself to 
me — will you let me make you my wife? My life 
shall be spent in striving to win your love. Darling, 
you shall never regret it.” 

She was looking up at him with widely open eyes. 

“You forget,” she said brokenly. “There has 
been — some one else.” 

“ I forget nothing. I know that you have cared 
for a man who has not honor enough to ” 

“Hush! for pity’s sake!” She wrenched her fin- 
gers from his clasp and flung them before her face. 

“You do not know what you ask, nor what I am! 
If you knew, you would turn from me in horror and 

loathing. I >” She held herself a little apart, 

speaking with difficulty, her eyes seeking his ner- 
vously. “ I ” Her voice faltered and broke. 

“Speak, Emily. I bid you speak. Fear nothing. ” 

Great beads of perspiration stood on the doctor’s 
brow. Again he laid his hands on hers, and could 
feel her quiver as he did so. The words came halt- 
ingly from her lips — disconnectedly often, a phrase 
broken or unintelligible; but she obeyed, and the 
pitiful story of a woman’s frailty and a woman’s 
shame was told. Then with a cry of despair she 
tossed her head. 

“I love him still !” she cried. “I could creep to 
his feet, and die there content.” 

“ Do you love him — the man who has destroyed 
5’our life for his own selfish pleasure? Emily, rise 


284 


CONSTANCE. 


above this infatuation. There are depths still un- 
touched, undreamed of, in your nature. Your pri- 
mary instincts were pure, good. Throw off this 
thrall. Put this man out of your heart and life for 
ever. You can do it — will you?” 

In the silence that followed Dr. Dale could hear 
the quick throbbing of his heart; but Emily stood 
white and still. 

“ You mean ” she said at last, all unbelievingly. 

“ I mean that what you have confessed to me has 
but increased my love for you. I will marry you, 
Emily ; and what is more, I will trust you for all the 
time to come,” and he drew her into his arms. 

For a second she lay there, passive, mute, then she 
raised her hand to her head. 

“ It is coming back again — the pain, and the con- 
fusion,” she said. “Oh, make me rest — you can, 
and you only. ” 

She pressed her hand upon her brow, and he could 
feel the quick pulses beating and hammering. With 
all his force, with his whole heart and soul, he 
willed that she should sink into a dreamless sleep. 

Her eyelids quivered and fell, the muscles relaxed, 
she lay heavily back in his arms — at rest. 

And then Dr. Dale lifted her and laid her on a sofa 
at the farther end of the room. It was fitted into a 
sort of recess, with curtains reaching down to the 
ground, and completely shut out from view the rest 
of the room. 

The storm broke in all its fury. Peals of thunder, 
followed by lurid gleams of lightning 

“ It will not wake her here, and she will .be in the 
dark, which is better,” he mused, as he dragged the 
curtains across and went back to his chair. An hour 
went by, and still the thunder pealed. The doctor 
opened the window and let in the cool, sweet, rain- 
laden air. Faugh ! It was stifling in here. How 
quietly she slept — poor Emily ! He rose, and drew 


CONSTANCE. 285 

back the crimson draperies. She might almost have 
been dead, so motionless, so white. 

He bent over her. Her breath came softly, evenly, 
between the parted lips. Not all the artillery of 
heaven had power to arouse her. Her bosom rose 
and fell beneath the thin gauze that covered it, and 
her beautifully moulded limbs were tossed wantonly 
apart, the thin stuff of which her gown was made 
allowing the perfect outlines to be seen. The blood 
rushed to Dr. Dale’s face. He caught up a rng and 
laid it about her, pressing his lips to the white veined 
hand that lay palm uppermost. He dared not trust 
himself to watch her. 

How lovely she was! Ashe thought of the story 
she had told, and how she had been the caprice of a 
moment, flung aside when wearied of, he clenched 
his hand angrily. 

“And she loves him still, poor girl! and would 
follow his beckoning finger if it led to her own 
destruction ! Am I man enough to yield her up to 
him? Could he be forced into doing her a tardy 
justice? She has no love for me, and it would be 
hard to bear if, in the years to come, she grew no 
nearer to me — if her thoughts were still turned 
regretfully toward him!’’ 

Full two hours passed away, and Dr. Dale still sat 
with his head resting on his hand, musing. Then 
he rose, pale and stern. 

“ For her sake, ” he murmured, and with a quick, 
firm step crossed the room and drew aside the cur- 
tains. The sleeping girl had not stirred. It was 
eleven o’clock when she rang the surgery bell, and 
it was now on the stroke of three. Loath though he 
felt to rouse her, it must be done. 

Janet, it was true, was accustomed to all sorts of 
vagaries on the part of her brother, but she happened 
to know to-night that he had not been sent for, and 
if perchance she was restless, as well she might be 


286 


CONSTANCE. 


after such a storm, it was more than likely that she 
would find out that he had not yet come upstairs. So, 
all unwillingly, he put his hand upon Emily’s arm. 

“Wake up!” he cried; but she did not stir. He 
blew sharply upon the closed eyelids; they were fast 
closed. He even shook her and raised her head 
from the pillows ; but it fell back again. 

“She must have her sleep out, I suppose,” he 
thought uneasily. “ If she has had several restless 
nights she will be worn out with fatigue ; but it is 
awkward.” Yes, it was extremely awkward. 

From time to time he tried to rouse her, but with 
no result whatever, and the time crept away until 
daylight crept through the windows, and the doctor 
extinguished his lamp. 

Morning had come, and still Emily slept tran- 
quilly on. 

Dr. Dale had not closed his eyes all night. He 
was far too anxious; but he began to feel the want 
of sleep. He poured some cold water into a basin, 
dipped his head into it, and felt somewhat refreshed. 
Then he flicked a wet corner of the towel into the 
face of the sleeping girl, but there was not so much 
as a movement of the eyelids in response. At nine 
o’clock the household was astir. The page boy 
began shaking the mats out of the side door, whist- 
ling to himself. Those bars of “Annie Rooney” 
nearly drove his master distracted. Twenty times 
he was on the point of calling out to him to cease, 
but forebore. At last Henry went indoors, and 
there was a lull. 

Dr. Dale was anxious to arrange his bedroom some- 
what, so that it might present an air of having been 
occupied. Taking heart of grace, and profoundly 
hoping that Miss Baillie would not choose the iden- 
tical moment to awaken when he was absent, he stole 
forth, carefully locking the door behind him. Up 
the stairs stealthily — at the top he was confronted by 
his sister. 


CONSTANCE. 


287 


“ Have you been out, Vivian?” she asked. 

“ Yes — no — that is to say ” 

Janet looked surprised, ^s well she might. It was 
not her brother’s wont to give evasive answers, and 
he had a perfect right to please himself in all things. 

“Your bed has not been slept in,” she remarked, 
“so I supposed you had been sent for.” 

“The fact is, my dear Janet, I stayed up reading, 
and I actually fell asleep in my surgery. A fright- 
ful confession to make, is it not?” 

His sister laughed and went downstairs without 
giving it another thought. As soon as it was pos- 
sible the doctor returned to his sanctum, where 
Henry brought his breakfast, for he felt it would be 
impossible to sit down with Janet. 

Still Emily slept on. What in the world was he 
to do? He had a busy day before him — many 
patients to see. It was out of the question that he 
could remain at home, and equally impossible to leave 
the sleeping beauty locked up. Should he take 
Janet into his confidence? No. He dismissed the 
notion. His sister was a bit of a prude. She would 
think it odd that Miss Baillie should have come 
there at all. He could not tell her. She would not 
believe him. 

“ Upon my word, I don’t know what to do, ” he said. 
It was now ten o’clock, and he ought to be off. A 
few minutes later the brougham came to the door. 

“Henry,” said Dr. Dale, “send Coates back — I 
shall not want him until later.” 

The page boy went out with his message, and a 
minute or two later Janet knocked at his door. 

“Are you not going to use the brougham?” said 
she, astonishment legibly written on her face. 

“ No, I — I have to wait to see a patient whom I am 
momentarily expecting,” returned the doctor. 

But he was telling a lie, and his sister could tell 
as much. 


CHAPTER XLIL 


Now when Dr. Dale did not use his brougham, his 
sister usually took possession of it but for once she 
departed from her accustomed rule. 

She did not care to go out, she told herself, unwill- 
ing to acknowledge that a feeling of curiosity kept 
her within doors. More and more astonished was 
Janet when one o’clock came and her brother had 
not left his surgery. What would his patients 
think? Twenty of them, at least, must have been 
expecting him. Was he ill? Janet flung her work 
aside and went to the surgery. The door was locked. 
She rapped sharply. A voice from within answered : 

“ What do you want?" 

“Are you not well, Vivian? Let me in." 

“ I am perfectly well, but busy. Go away. " 

But J anet did not go. She lingered on the threshold 
until she had satisfied herself that her brother was 
alone. Not a sound reached her ear save the quick 
turning of the pages of a book, and at length she 
returned to her own room, sorely puzzled. Truly 
Dr. Dale was on the horns of a dilemma. 

Emily still slept peacefully on, and it might have 
been the sleep of the dead for all sign she gave of 
life or movement. He blew upon her face, raised 
her eyelids, lifted her from her recumbent position 
and placed her on a chair, but all efforts to awaken 
her were useless. At two o’clock he had a patient to 
visit whom it would be fatal to disappoint. Go he 
must. 

How he cursed his insane folly in playing with 
edged tools. Supposing that she never woke? A 
28§ 


CONSTANCE. 


289 


cold shiver ran down the doctor’s spine, and he 
thrust his fingers through his hair distractedly. 
Then he hastily scribbled a few lines to meet the 
girl’s eye if she should awaken during his absence, 
drew the curtains closely over the recess, and locked 
the door after him. When Janet heard the sharp 
click of the hall door she flew to the window. Yes, 
it was her brother, hurrying along at the top of his 
speed. 

He had gone, then, without luncheon. It was all 
very perplexing. Janet picked at the wing of a 
chicken, drank a glass of claret, and, like Bluebeard’s 
wife, determined to trespass on forbidden ground. 
She had never once been refused admittance to her 
brother’s surgery, although as a matter of fact she 
had never wished to go there. It had no charms for 
her. It had never occurred to Dr. Dale that his sis- 
ter might have a twin key to the one that reposed 
snugly in his waistcoat pocket, but Janet found one 
on her bunch that fitted, and the lock turned easily. 
The first thing she saw was the folded note in the 
middle of the table addressed to Miss Baillie. 

“ Then it was she for whom he was waiting,” cried 
Janet, with lips tightly compressed, and would have 
turned and left the room forthwith, irritated and 
sore, but something on the floor caught her eye- 
caught and rivetted it. That something was a wo- 
man’s glove. Janet pounced upon it eagerly. 

“ She has been here ! How could I miss seeing 
her?” she wondered. vShe straightened out the offend- 
ing tell-tale and laid it down by the note. Why, if 
she had so lately left him, had her brother written 
to her? 

Janet turned the folded paper over in her hands 
and, in so doing, unintentionally saw a word or two. 
Honor was flung to the wind. She remembered 
nothing but that the key of the mystery was before 
her — tore it open and devoured its contents, 

19 ; 


290 


CONSTANCE. 


“ Do not be alarmed at finding yourself alone. I shall 
return as quickly as possible, and on no account attempt 
to leave the house until I have seen you again.” 

Then she was here still! Janet held her breath 
and looked furtively round. Not a living soul was 
insight. What could it mean? Ah! With a sudden 
movement she flew across the floor, and parted the 
curtains that shaded the recess. 

There lay Emily Baillie — asleep. Astonishment 
rooted Janet to the spot. Literally, she was incap- 
able of movement. She stood and gazed, and the 
unconscious girl slept peacefully on. 

When Janet found herself in her own room once 
more, like Bluebeard’s wife again, she regretted the 
miserable curiosity that had brought this shameful 
secret to her knowledge. 

“I suppose she has been here all night,” she re- 
flected, with flaming cheeks. “ It is disgraceful, and 
I would never believed it of Vivian.” She recalled 
his confusion and the hesitation with which he spoke 
when she had met him on the stairs before breakfast. 
She understood it now, and was more incensed than 
she had ever been in her life. 

Meanwhile, Dr. Dale, in happy ignorance of what 
had transpired at home, had paid his visit to the 
choleric old gentleman who would assuredly have 
dismissed him without the faintest scruple had he 
not paid his accustomed visit at the hour it suited 
his convenience to be waited upon, and was standing 
on the mat preparatory to taking his departure, 
when a door on his left opened and a man came out, 
crossed the hall, and as he did so caught sight of Dr. 
Dale. 

It was Lord Hardstock. The blood rushed to the 
doctor’s face. In two seconds he had come to a 
determination. He stepped forward and laid his 
hand on the other’s arm. .. 


CONSTANCE. 


291 


“May I have a word with you?” 

“ Twenty if you like — I am quite at your service.” 

The men walked away side by side. Just at first, 
it was not easy to begin his tale, but the ice once 
broken the words came glibly. Dr. Dale told how 
the woman Lord Hardstock had flung into the gutter 
had come to him for help and advice, and how her 
sad story was known to him. 

“I have no right to dictate to you,” he said, in 
conclusion. “ In such cases each man must judge 
for himself, and frame his actions according to his 
own code of honor; but if you could have seen and 
heard the poor girl as I saw her, bowed down to the 
very earth with shame and misery, I cannot but 
think that one course alone would commend itself 
to you. 

“ And that?” 

“ Marriage, and what reparation love and devo- 
tion can bring.” 

Lord Hardstock was silent for a space, then look- 
ing curiously into his companion’s face: 

“A little bird had whispered to me,” said he, 
“ that Dr. Dale was not indifferent to the charms of 
the lady in question.” 

“ It is true. I am not ashamed to confess it. I 
love Emily Baillie so well that I bury my own feel- 
ings out of sight and ask the man she loves to do her 
the only justice in his power.” 

“ And you think she would be happy as my wife, 
knowing, as she must certainly do, that I offered her 
marriage solely from a sense of the injury I had 
done her?” 

“ I do think so. She has a peculiar disposition — 
sensitive to a degree — highly emotional. You are to 
her the one man in the world, and she would be hap- 
pier with you than with one who would undoubtedly 
treat her better.” 

“You are honest, at all events.” 


292 


CONSTANCE. 


“ I am too anxious for her welfare to pick and 
choose my words. ” The young man’s voice shook. 

“What is her address? Where is she staying?” 

Dr. Dale laughed. “ That is the oddest part of the 
business. She is in my house, where she has been 
since eleven o’clock last night — unconscious.” And 
he briefly narrated the facts as we know them. 

“Good Lord, man — she may die!” Lord Hard- 
stock was genuinely startled. “ I have seen some- 
thing of mesmerism in my time, and have dabbled 
in it myself in my younger days, but I know quite 
enough to be aware that if you are unable to awaken 
her you ought at once to get assistance. There is 
Delany [naming one of the first mesmerists of the 
day]. The only thing to be done is to put the case 
before him at once.” 

With a sinking heart the doctor agreed, and the 
two men, drawn together by a vague and horrible 
dread, jumped into a hansom and were rapidly 
driven to Harley Street. Here they found Mr. Delany 
at home, and within a quarter of an hour they were 
all three en route for West Kensington. 

“ It is, then, seventeen hours since the young lady 
succumbed to the influence?” questioned the great 
man. “ Have there been any twitchings of the eye- 
lids, or convulsions of the body?” 

“ None whatever. She lies like a child, and a 
happy child, quietly sleeping, a half smile upon her 
face.” 

“Humph!” Not another word did the professor 
speak until they reached the surgery door, where Dr. 
Dale produced his latchkey and they entered noise- 
lessly, so noiselessly that Janet on the floor above 
heard nothing. 

Emily lay in precisely the same position as when 
he had left her, but the doctor fancied that there 
was a warmer tint upon her face. He took her 
hand, but it fell limp and nerveless from his hold. 


CONSTANCE. 


293 


Professor Delany thrust him aside with scant cere- 
mony, and began making rapid passes over the 
recumbent form. The veins in his forehead stood 
out like whipcord. He worked like one possessed, 
but it was of no avail. 

Then he beckoned to Dr. Dale, and showed him 
how to place his arms lengthwise along the arms of 
the subject and breathe softly upon her. “ Speak to 
her — call her by her name.” 

“Emily! Emily!” 

A quiver passed over the upturned face — another 
— a smile — and then : 

“I am coming, Rupert!” But her voice was so 
faint, so weak, that it only reached the ears of the 
man who would freely have given his life for her. 
As if he had been stung, he shrank back. Still with 
her eyes closed, the girl pulled herself upright, and 
tried to make a few tottering steps. It was toward 
Lord Hardstock she turned, and, obeying an impera- 
tive gesture from Delany, his lordship put out his 
hand and drew her closely to him. With a sigh, she 
laid her head like a tired child upon his breast. 

“ She will do now. Be careful that she is not dis- 
turbed or agitated in any way, and, sir, if you will 
accept my advice, be very chary how you use the 
gifts you undoubtedly possess ; for mesmerism, though 
the most abject of slaves, is apt at times to be a hard 
master. 

Dr. Dale bowed silently. It was not likely that 
to his dying day he would forget the terrible lesson 
he had learned. Whispering a few words to Lord 
Hardstock, Dr. Dale closed the surgery door upon 
him, and went upstairs to the dining-room. He was 
worn out, physically and mentally. His sleepless 
night and the terrible excitement he had'gone through 
had left him weak and unnerved. He was beginning 
to be conscious, too, that he had breakfasted but 
lightly, and had eaten nothing since. Janet sat stiff 


294 


CONSTANCE. 


and stern in her accustomed seat near the window. 
Her brother walked up to the sideboard and poured 
out a tumbler half full of sherry and drank it off at 
a draught. Then he flung himself heavily on the 
sofa, with a sigh. 

“ Would you like your luncheon now, Vivian?” 

“Yes; I am hungry, and dead tired.” 

“ I am not surprised,” returned his sister frigidly, 
as she rang the bell. 

The doctor made a hearty meal, during which 
Janet never ppe^ned her lips, for which her brother 
was profounMy thankful. But just as he was about 
to leave the room she rose from her chair and faced 
him. 

“No!” she said, with quite a tragic air. “You 
will not leave me, Vivian, until you inform me who 
the female is you have secreted in your surgery, and 
for what purpose she is here. ” 

“ My dear Janet, what do you mean?” 

“ Precisely what I say. Unless you give me a full 
and sufficient reason for certain facts that have come 
to my knowledge, I leave your roof at once and for 
ever. You seem to forget that I am a virtuous 
woman, and as such should be respected.” 

“ By Jove! you can go as soon as you like,” cried 
Dr. Dale, now fully as angry as his sister. “You 
may be everything that is pure and chaste, but upon 
my soul you are the biggest fool that ever wore 
petticoats.” 

So saying, the doctor went out and closed the door 
noisily after him. Janet fell back in her chair, white 
and quivering with passion, but too wrathful to shed 
a single tear. 

“ What I have seen with my own eyes I must be- 
lieve, ” she said to herself, but she forgot that “ things 
are not what they seem. ” 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


Lord Hardstock was not grateful for the tact with 
which his host had left him tHe-a-tete with his 
whilom love. On the contrary, he felt awkward 
and embarrassed, and wholly at a loss for words. 
Emily lay back among her cushions white and still, 
and for full ten minutes after the doctor’s steps might 
be heard overhead, silence reigned unbroken. 

At last Lord Hardstock spoke, in quick, jerky 
tones which marked his extreme uneasiness. 

“A pretty business this!” he said testily — “a nice 
disgraceful thing to have my name mixed up with, 
upon my word.” 

Emily made no response. 

“ I shall not say what 1 think about it now,” con- 
tinued his lordship ; “ but when you are yourself 
again, and in a fit condition to listen to a little plain 
talk, there will be a terrible reckoning between us. ” 
“Stop!” Emily lifted her hand imperiously. 
“You have forfeited all right to call me to account. 
Neither now nor at any other time will I humble 
myself to listen to you. You broke the last tie 
between us when you left me for another woman. ” 
Her eyes were ablaze, and she was quivering with 
passion. AVhen he would have laid his hand sooth- 
ingly upon hers she flung it contemptuously aside. 
What would have irritated most men, curiously 
enough, attracted Lord Hardstock. He liked a 
woman to have a spice of the devil in her, and Emily 
was magnificent in her rage and contempt. 

Well, he would make some amends. The girl had 
her good points. She suited him; her nature was 
295 


296 


CONSTANCE. 


akin to his own; he admired her, and he became 
conscious that she was necessary to his comfort. He 
4id not want to lose her. It would be pleasant to 
bury the hatchet and be at peace. 

“Come, now,” he said cajolingly, “I will confess 
that that little romance as to an elopement with Mrs. 
Armitage was all moonshine. You had yourself to 
thank for it. I was sick to death of your jealousy 
and reproaches. ” 

The girl’s large eyes were fixed upon him with an 
expression which it was difficult to read. 

“It was a lie!” she said slowly, and with an evi- 
dent effort. “ And you would have me believe now 
that it was told to punish me? I should like to know 
your real motive. ” 

He laughed. “ Come, ” he said, “ let us be friends. 
You always were a little spitfire, Emily, but I don’t 
think you could bear me malice for long, eh?” 

“ Tell me the truth,” she said, rising as she spoke. 
“Why did you lie to me?” She came close to him, 
and put a hand on either shoulder, bending down to 
look into his eyes. “ Speak.” 

“Don’t make a fool of yourself, my girl. We 
have had enough scenes for one day.” 

He began to see that it would not be an easy mat- 
ter to pacify her. Confound that doctor! Why in 
the world had he left them alone? 

“ I am waiting for your answer. ” 

“ I tell you it was you yourself who drove me to it, 
with your eternal fault-finding. I have not treated 
you well, Emily ; I acknowledge it ; but we will let 
by-gones be by-gones. ” 

“ And your promise?” said she, beneath her breath. 
“What of your promise to make me your wife?” 
With a swift caressing movement she laid her head 
upon his arm. “ Rupert, do you forget how happy 
we have been together — you and I? My best I flung 
at your feet — all a woman has to give I gave you in 


CONSTANCE. 


297 


blindest faith and love.” Her slender fingers 
gripped him tightly, and he could feel the quick 
throbbing of her heart. “ I trusted to your word. 
Must it fail me now?” 

It was a terrible price to pay, but the girl was so 
beautiful that for a moment he wavered. Since 
Constance Armitage had shut her doors upon him, 
and would have none of his love, he might do worse 
than reward this faithful soul who would be his will- 
ing slave to the last hour of her life. 

Purely from a selfish conviction that it would be 
to his own advantage, and from no thought of the 
cruel wrong he had done her — of the irreparable 
injury which nothing could ever blot out — nor for 
the desire to make amends, he gathered her closely 
to him. Well, since it must be. Marriage with 
Emily Baillie would impose no great restriction upon 
his actions. 

“ I will keep my word,” he replied, and looked to 
see the love-light sparkle in her eye; but Emily 
drew herself apart, and she had grown white as a 
Lenten lily. 

“ You ask me to be your wife. Lord Hardstock!” 

“ I say I will marry you, Emily.” 

He felt that there was a very wide distinction 
between the phrases, although what they conveyed 
was the same. 

“ And I refuse the honor.” 

“ What!” Lord Hardstock really thought that she 
must have taken leave of her senses, the sudden 
joy had been too much for her; but he was speedily 
undeceived. 

“ I loved you once. Now, I hate and loathe you, 
and despise myself that ever I yielded to you. My 
eyes are opened, and I know you as you are.” 

“ What do you mean? Are you insane?” 

“ No. On the contrary, I am cured — cured of the 
miserable folly that has made shipwreck of the best 


298 


CONSTANCE. 


years of my life. I decline your offer, Lord Hard- 
stock. ” 

With an oath he turned toward the door. At that 
moment he could have felled her to the earth. That 
she should have dared to fool him — to laugh at him 
— to throw his magnanimity in his teeth! 

“You are not going, Lord Hardstock?” It was 
the doctor’s voice. 

“Yes, sir, I am,” stuttered his lordship. “As a 
man of honor I have acted as you entreated me to 
do, but Miss Baillie’’ — he could say no more, but 
stumbled out into the hall and shut the door with a 
bang. 

Then these two looked into one another’s faces. 

“Vivian,” said she softly, “you wished Lord 
Hardstock to make me his wife?” 

“ If it was your wish. Emily, why did you refuse 
kim?” 

For all answer the girl flung her hands before her 
face. 

“ I am not worthy,” she murmured humbly. But 
it was not of Lord Hardstock she was thinking. 
The tears came raining down her pale cheeks, and 
she held out her arms to him with a pathetic little 
cry. 

“Teach me to be good; help me to be good. 
Make me what I ought to be.” 

“Emily, it is not possible.” 

She looked up at him — their eyes met — and the 
next moment she was sobbing on his bosom. 

Vivian Dale had gained his heart’s desire. 

Christmas had come and gone, and a New Year 
dawned. Constance Armitage devoted her life to 
her little daughter. She had never filled Miss 
Baillie’s place. Eva was the sole thing left for her 
to love and to cling to. In some surprise, she saw 
the notice of Dr. Dale’s marriage in the Morning 


CONSTANCE. 


299 


Post. She knew that he had left Kensington, but 
she did not know where he had gone. What the 
doctor had been unwilling to yield to Janet’s plead- 
ings he gladly conceded to his wife. Emily declared 
that there were so many painful memories connected 
with the neighborhood — that she could not be happy 
there — and without a moment’s hesitation he agreed 
that they should leave. This was another thorn in 
Janet’s side. There was no open warfare between 
these two, but a veiled animosity which became so 
apparent at last to the doctor that he told his sister 
it would be better for them all if she were to make 
her home apart. 

“ I knew what it would be,” cried Janet stormily. 
“ I was sure that your wife would never rest until 
she had turned me out of doors. ” 

“You are unjust,” replied her brother, “as you 
have always been where Emily was concerned. She 
has never broached the subject to me ; • but your man- 
ner to her is so hostile that you cannot be surprised 
I should resent it. 

“Vivian, I sadly fear you have made a great mis- 
take,” groaned Janet, and to do her justice she did 
honestly believe that Emily was not the wife her 
brother should have chosen. 

“If so,” and the doctor smiled serenely, for he 
had no misgiving on the subject, “if so, I am sure 
you will have no pity for me, Janet.” 

“At least, I am your sister,” she answered indig- 
nantly, “ and have some natural affection for you, 
whatever you may have for me. ” 

“ We will not quarrel ; but I think for the happi- 
ness of us all it would be advisable for you to choose 
another home. ” 

This Janet did. To her intimate friends she 
hinted that it had been her own proposition to leave 
her brother. “ Married people get on better alone,” 
said she; but she never forgave Emily, and lost no 


306 


CONSTANCE. 


opportunity of casting a stone at her. But Emily 
was either too happy or too absolutely indifferent to 
bandy words with her. 

As the months rolled by she had but one thought 
and aim in life — Vivian’s comfort and Vivian’s well- 
being. 

It may briefly here be stated that Janet’s prognos- 
tications were never verified, nor did Dr. Dale ever 
regret the step he had taken. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


Early in the New Year came the welcome news 
that Daphne had a little son. Gerald wrote with a 
heart brimming over with happiness, urging that 
Constance should come over to Paris and judge for 
herself what a remarkable specimen of babyhood the 
heir was. 

“ The nurse is a perfect tyrant, ” he added, “ and 
will hardly allow me a glimpse of Daphne. She 
declares that I am more trouble to manage than the 
boy is. Come and take my part. ” 

Constance went. She shut up the house in Ken- 
sington, and sent Eva to her aunt. 

Mr. Armitage’s face was one broad beam of satis- 
faction, and there was something in the young 
mother’s eyes as she looked up from the fluffy head 
on her arm that told of rest and peace. 

“Oh! It was not for nothing, then.” But poor 
Constance sighed wistfully, for it was at a terrible 
price to herself that she had purchased happiness for 
her brother-in-law. 

It must not be supposed that Daphne’s whole 
nature had changed in a second of time: the process 
was very gradual. The wilful spirit often showed 
itself, and the natural obstinacy that was so essen- 
tially a part of her character would now and again 
come to the fore; but the terrible lesson she had 
learned would never be forgotten. Every year as it 
passed found her staider and more to be relied upon. 
Above and beyond all else, the girl was slowly realiz- 
ing that she loved her husband — loved and honored 
him; and now that the little one had come to her 
301 


302 


CONSTANCE. 


there was yet another link to bind husband and wife 
together. 

“It isn’t very pretty, I am afraid,” she whispered, 
half apologetically, as she drew the covering aside 
and displayed a little wrinkled, red face to Con- 
stance’s gaze, “but nurse says they always look like 
that, so I must be contented, I suppose. He’ll grow 
nicer by and by,” she added, with a little reassur- 
ing smile. 

“ I think he is a fine fellow, dear. I am sure you 
ought to be very proud of him.” 

Daphne made a rapid recovery, and was soon able 
to leave her room. Then, just as she was begin- 
ning to think of home and England, Constance felt ill 
herself. Cold, she said it was, for she was feverish, 
and her limbs ached; but she would not have a 
doctor. 

“ I shall be all right in a day or two. ” But a week 
went by, and she was still ailing. At last she took 
to her bed and lay there, too weak to leave it. 
Then Daphne took the law into her own hands, and 
sent for a medical man. There was nothing much 
amiss, he said. Madame had lost strength, and 
wanted a tonic. He wrote a prescription, and he 
paid a daily visit, but Constance grew no better. 
She must not lie there any longer. She must dress 
and go into the salon — she needed rousing, said Dr. 
Pierre, and at his bidding Constance crept from her 
bed, very shaky and feeling as if she had had a long 
illness, and lay on the sofa in Daphne’s pretty draw- 
ing room. A week went by, and Constance began to 
mend, but she was in no state yet to travel, and 
Daphne wrote to Mrs. Strangways and told her that 
it was out of the question that Mrs. Armitage could 
return for another couple of weeks. 

The baby throve amazingly, and Daphne was the 
proudest, happiest little mother one could conceive. 

Dr. Pierre became interested in his patient. The 


CONSTANCE. 


303 


case puzzled him. There was nothing radically 
wrong with Mrs. Armitage — no organic trouble — 
and her temperature was normal. At the same time, 
there was such an utter failure of energy and vitality 
that he was puzzled, and more anxious than he cared 
to acknowledge. 

“ Has she had any great shock, or is she fretting 
over anything?” he asked of Daphne. In perfect 
good faith Daphne replied that she was quite sure 
there was nothing of the sort. 

Daphne had been for a short drive with her hus- 
band, and came home radiant and quite excited. 

“Who do you suppose I have seen?” cried she. 
“ You would never guess, and yet he is an old friend 
of yours. Mr. St. Quentin. He is looking old and 
ill. I leaned forward to try and catch his eye, but 
he did not see me.” 

Constance was silent. Her heart was throbbing 
so fast that she felt suffocated, but she gave no out- 
ward sign. 

“ I must go back to London,” she told herself that 
same night. “ It is not safe for me to stop here 
any longer. I think it would kill me to see him 
now. ” 

Two days later, as Daphne stepped from her car- 
riage at the door of the Magasin du Louvre, a gen- 
tleman drew back to let her pass. Daphne looked 
up, and the next instant had stretched out her hand 
gleefully. 

“Mr. St. Quentin! Then it mas you? I knew it 
was, although Gerald would have it that I was mis; 
taken. When did you come back, and why did you 
ever go away?” 

He smiled. The new Daphne was very like the 
old impulsive Daphne still. 

“You are alone?” glancing at the empty car- 
riage. 

“Yes. O Mr. St. Quentin, I should like to tell 


CONSTANCE. 


304 

you, only it would take too long. Come and see us. 
Constance is staying with me. She ” 

“ Lady Fardstock!” 

Daphne looked perplexed. “No,” she said sim- 
ply. “ Constance is Mrs. Armitage still. I do not 
think she will ever marry. ” 

“ She is not his wife?” he asked, in so much agita- 
tion that she could not but notice it. “ She must — 
she ought to be.” 

“ Why?” There was a mystery here, and the little 
lady was bent on getting to 'the bottom of it. 

“ I was told — there was a rumor — that she — had 
left her home under his protection.” 

The words had a hideous sound. Daphne caught 
her breath sharply. “Who could have said such 
an iniquitous thing? Lord Hardstock did, it is true, 
come with her as far as Folkestone — I remember now 
that she said so ; but I can prove that he went no 
further, for it was I who summoned her, Mr. St. 
Quentin. It was to me she hurried. I was in ter- 
rible trouble — I can never explain how or why — but 
I had been guilty of a grave error, and but for Con- 
stance I might have made shipwreck of my life.” 

“ Is this true?” 

“ Every word of it. Mr. St. Quentin, I can’t stand 
here talking. I am not very strong,” she blushed, 
brightly. “ If you will come and see us I will show 
you the most wonderful baby you ever saw — all my 
own. I wasn’t a bit fond of him at first, but I am 
now. I think he is beautiful. Will you come?” 

St. Quentin declared that nothing would give him 
so much pleasure as to renew his acquaintance with 
his old friends, and a minute later Daphne had dis- 
appeared in the Magasin, and he was left on the 
pavement looking after her. 

Then he wheeled round and bent his steps in the 
direction of the Armitage’s. What a hurry he was 
in to see that wonderful baby, to be sure ! He laughed 


CONSTANCE. 305 

softly to himself. He was at once admitted. Ma- 
dame Armitage was in the salon. 

He pushed aside the portibre and went in. In a 
big easy-chair, which almost swallowed her up, so 
fragile and thin was she now, sat Constance, her 
hands folded idly in her lap. 

She was wearing a loose white teagown, which 
made her look still more delicate and ethereal, and 
her soft hair was gathered in a big knot in the nap« 
of her neck. All this he had time to note, for she 
made no movement, her head thrown back against 
the dark cushions and the blue-veined eyelids droop- 
ing heavily. 

“Constance.” 

He crossed the room quickly to her side. She did 
not faint nor scream, nor utter so much as a sound. 
You see, she has never been an emotional heroine 
in any way, poor Constance ; but she raised herself 
slightly and grasped either arm of the big chair, 
while her breath came thick and fast, and the faintest 
stain of color crept over the whiteness of her cheek. 

“Constance, you will be my wife — you will not 
send me from you again?” 

She lifted her head — pride forgotten — the wrong 
he had done her forgiven — every barrier swept away 
by the weight of her exceeding love. 

They stood heart to heart and soul to soul. And 
he took his answer from her lips. 

20 


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